


Given To Fly

by alyxpoe



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Canon-Type Violence, Crossover, Douglas has a thing for red-heads, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Whump, Martin is a Holmes sibling, Martin is a wingwalker, Mycroft really loves his brother(s), Plane Crashes, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlock looks hot in swim trunks, Siblings, air planes, air shows, author has a thing for pilots, exploring families, men kissing, parent!lock lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows a few things have changed about Sherlock: they now have a four-year-old daughter; Sherlock is back to working cases, and they are set in a routine with one another. On Holiday, John will learn some new things about the man he loves and along the way, their little family will grow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Work & Play

_**Quick Author's Notes:**_ First, let me tell you that I had posted 'some' of this story about a year ago but as far as I got with it, I couldn't make it work and I fell completely head over heels in  _hate_ with it. It's been reworked completely, but I have kept some of it. So yes, some of this may be familiar, and if so, no, you aren't crazy. 

Second, this story takes place after **Green Stars and Black Ice _,_** but completely disregards Arrows and Bullets altogether, so as it is technically a Sophie story, it's not really about her, so I'm not adding it as part of that series. This story is quite simply about love and families. It is not necessary to have read Green Stars and Black Ice, but it may help you understand a little detail here and there about how Sophie came to be and the way Sherlock came home.

So, without further ado, I give you:

 

** Given to Fly **

_ Introduction:  _

**_He could have tuned in, tuned in, but he tuned out  
A bad time, nothing could save him  
Alone in a corridor waiting locked out  
He got up out of there, ran for hundreds of miles  
_ ** _He made it to the ocean, had a smoke in a tree_  
 _The wind rose up, set him down on his knee_  
 _Wave came crashing like a fist to the jaw,_  
 _Delivered him wings, "Hey, look at me now..."_  
 _Arms wide open with the sea as his floor_  
 _Oh – ah, ohhh..._  
  
 _He's - flying! Home_  
 _High! Wide! Home..._  
  
 _He floated back down 'cause he wanted to share_  
 _His key to the locks on the chains, he saw everywhere_  
 _But first he was stripped, then he was stabbed_  
 _By faceless men, well...fuckers, he still stands._  
 _**And he still gives his love, he just gives it away  
The love he receives is the love that is saved**_  
 _And sometimes is seen a strange spot in the sky_  
 _**A human being that was given to fly**_  
  
 _Flying! Home..._  
 _High! Flying! Home..._  
 _He's Flying! Home..._

**Given to Fly © Pearl Jam**

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter One: Work & Play**

**Sunday**

Waves of color encompass the entire place: bright waving banners of orange, yellow and red. To John Watson, it is like being in the middle of a massive, raging fireball. He can only imagine what the plethora of sights and smells are doing to his partner. The smell of fried dough and the laughter of children hang heavy in the air. A fighter jet swoops by overhead, howling as it flies by and rumbling the tarmac beneath the soles of his trainers; the slight wind it kicks up causes the material of his walking shorts to flutter against his legs.

The pristine azure sky above overshadows the oppressive heat and humidity. He _was_ in Afghanistan for four years, so he tries not to let it get to him overly much. John takes a long swig from the water bottle in his hand and stares ahead, watching Sherlock Holmes work at his self-appointed task.

The fire from the downed airplane has long been put out, but the smell of burning fuel is thick in the air. The grass beneath the cordoned-off crime scene is burnt black. Everything happening here on the grounds today is simply too big to shut it all down for a single crash. Sadly, on the occasions when it does happen, there are many procedures in place to deal with it and still allow the public to continue to enjoy the show until after the investigation is carried out. John knows that to some, this may seem disrespectful to the downed pilot(s), but in reality, public safety is taken very seriously and a mass panic should be avoided at all costs.

His hands gesturing and pointing, Sherlock stalks in circles around the body. He’s got the sleeves rolled up on his purple button-down, but only up to the elbows: his singular nod to the heat around them. He’s dressed, as usual, in black chinos and his black leather Oxfords. John can see clearly from where he stands that something has added up quickly in the mind of the sweating detective who is trying hard to take over.

The crime scene photographer has long since been berated and dismissed as ‘too loud.’ John hopes the woman was at least able to do her job properly before that. He watches Sherlock pace, his hands making strange circles in the air; he finally pauses, going completely still and turns sharply towards the two policemen and single MP standing at the body’s feet.

John does not need to hear Sherlock’s raised voice to know that he’s just unwisely shouted at them for ‘thinking too loud.’

A bit not good. John sighs, closes his eyes and counts to seven.

He doesn’t need to look again to know that two of the three uniformed men are growing angry, their faces flushing red in a way that has nothing to do with ambient temperature. In the back of his mind, John thinks: _you can’t do this_ here _, Sherlock_. _American men, especially the military types, aren’t going to take your bullshit, these guys will simply throw us out if not into jail and then the case you just wedged yourself into will never be solved._

It is one thing for Sherlock to do this at home where they’re accustomed to his eccentric but useful actions; here on unknown turf? Nope. John sighs a second time, accepting the fact that it is going to be up to him to turn this situation around—again.

In a minute, anyway, it will. He turns towards the airfield that opens up behind them, thankful for the sunglasses he’s wearing as the day has grown dazzlingly bright. A set of shiny little P-51 Mustangs trundle down the tarmac to where they will be parked for the remainder of the show. They travel in a smooth line, their engines humming splendidly and for a moment he wonders why he chose the British Army over the RAF.

In the sky over his head, a ginger man in a tight black suit is waving to the crowd from the bottom wing of a bright red bi-plane whose make John doesn’t recognize. He marvels at the man’s nimbleness as he climbs up to the top wing.

“John.”

“John!”

“ _John!”_

The consulting detective’s roar can be heard over the engine of a bomber that has just started up down the runway. John is secretly impressed, amazed at the control Sherlock has over his voice. He can easily be bellowing out orders at one point, drowning out the rumble of massive planes, or practically purring in ecstasy the next…

John shakes _that_ thought out of his head and moves closer to Sherlock who frowns at him in a knowing way but continues with his line of thought, “John, will you please explain to these ingrates that if I cannot _concentrate_ over their incessant babbling I _cannot do my job_. I _need_ to hear _myself think_!”

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock, who finally shuts up and offers him a smirk, though he knows nothing short of a miracle is going to get through to the angry officers. John makes a command decision and decides that it is more than past time to pull Sherlock back to the hotel and find a way to calm him down, if not actually physically _cool_ him down.

John does his best to thank the policemen and the MP and steers Sherlock away by grasping his forearm. If the detective doesn’t have any data to go on by now, there simply isn’t any, even after the six and one-half minutes that Sherlock spent on the site swooping about like a vulture.

Not like he was invited to do the swooping in the first place: he just did it. Like everyone else on the airfield today, he saw the crash earlier. After watching it, and _not_ the planes in the sky, he drags John towards it with ever increasing fervor. Most people would have jet leg, Sherlock has _boredom_.

John keeps a calming hand on his partner as he pushes him away from the scene. Sherlock sags his shoulders slightly; it’s enough of a break in his usual armor that John knows he’s doing the right thing. He lets his grip loosen a little but Sherlock continues forward, his steps growing heavier by the second.

***

In their suite, Sherlock is irritated and pacing, his hands roving through his hair until he’s got the curls so badly mussed it seems like each strand is screaming out its own annoyance. He is still wearing his sweaty purple shirt and his fringe is plastered to his forehead. John can see that everything about the case (that really isn’t their business in the first place) is wrong by watching the way his partner moves.

From where the body lay in conjunction to the crashed one-seater plane to the fact that there were no burn marks on the suit the body was wearing, nothing seems to fit, at least for John.

 _Ah ha_.

John is fairly certain he just felt one of Sherlock’s epiphanies. No wonder he always looks like he just had an orgasm.

“Sherlock!” Naturally, he’s ignored the first time. “Sherlock, will you listen to me for a second?” John sits down on the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock stops in his stomping prowl of the room, offering John a withering glare for stopping the machinations of the all-important process. The air conditioner rattles to a start as Sherlock stops and he suppresses a small shudder that he seems to ignore.

Now isn’t the time for John to remind him that he’s still damp, John reminds himself. He readies himself to be called _wrong_ but says what just occurred to him anyway, “There’s something wrong with the pilot. The flight suit…”

Sherlock never lets John finish before taking up the thread. Green eyes flash as his expression moves smoothly from irritation to insight.

“You _have_ been paying attention!”

John knows that’s almost like being told he’s _right_ , so he doesn’t push the issue. Sherlock continues, “That’s it! The suit is all wrong. John, the body was never _in_ an airplane—at least today—and was never a pilot, _ever_.”

John nods and waits for Sherlock to deduce his way to the answers. While they roll off his silver tongue, he unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and changes it for a plain blue cotton tee and Sherlock barely notices until John is unzipping his black trousers and pulling them down Sherlock’s legs. The detective pauses for only a few seconds when he is handed a pair of khaki walking shorts and his old trainers. He certainly doesn’t stop talking while he’s putting on low socks and tying his shoes.

John finally shuts him up by kissing him and pushing him up against the wall, burying his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. After that, there’s a solid half hour of silence broken only by panting and soft moans until Sherlock finally succumbs to the jet lag he’s managed to ignore and falls asleep stretched out over top of John, still in his shoes. John smiles to himself and lets Sherlock rest before closing his own eyes. He’s got a feeling that they are going to need the break.

***

Puzzle solving is not why John and Sherlock are in America in the first place. They’re at the air show because an old friend of DI Greg Lestrade sent an invitation to come and see his last flying performance before he is to officially retire. Thrilled, Greg asked his husband and Sherlock’s brother Mycroft and suddenly they are all on holiday in the mid-western United States at one of the largest air shows in the country. Since Sherlock refused to leave London without little Sophie, Mrs. Hudson was invited to come along, too.

They are going to be here for a full seven days, and today is the first. Mycroft, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Sophie and John have thoroughly enjoyed themselves, starting the day by drifting about the grounds and getting an overall feel for the place. Sherlock wanders away on his own early and was thoroughly engrossed in a working model of a wind tunnel when John found him two hours later-once he’d decided that the detective had gone long enough without sustenance that day.

Later that evening, John will explain to Mrs. Hudson that the poor college student running the wind tunnel display was backed into a corner by Sherlock’s, well for want of a better word, _enthusiasm_. The young man never really had a chance, to be fair. John bought him a cold drink and a huge chocolate-chip cookie then swiftly marched Sherlock back to their room. John would never complain, however, it is all par for the course with the man he loves almost more than life itself.

John is content and Sherlock is so much more himself now since things have begun settling into a routine; having a place to call home that is more than temporary is an amazing thing for John, and he knows Sherlock feels the same. Naturally, even Sherlock had to adjust once he came back from being _dead_ and John is positive that having their family around him is helping, too. [Everything that had happened between them since Sherlock came back encourages him, as well.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/728441/chapters/1352624)

Scotland Yard began allowing Sherlock back on cases again, but out of the twenty or so that Sherlock bothered to look at in the past year, it has only been in the last six months that he’s agreed to actually go out to the scene, instead of working on them from home.

Over several days, Sherlock grew increasingly irritated at his inability to actually get to the crime scene until, finally, one night John told him in no uncertain terms that he was driving him crazy.

“Sherlock, why are you still here? Greg was here hours ago with a new case.”

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table in his familiar hunched-over pose, fingers buried in his hair, elbows on the table and a way-too thin case file in front of him. He is glaring at it so hard that John is surprised he hasn’t set the table on fire. He looks up at John with his lips flattened and a strange glint in his green eyes John cannot name.

“Sherlock, you need this, love. I know you can’t get all the data from that little file,” John points at it, “what on earth is stopping you?”

Sherlock frowns harder, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling. “If you must know John, it’s _you_.”

“What?” John asks, dumbfounded.

“If I get hurt, not much will change. Since you are legally Sophie’s guardian, if _you_ get hurt or killed or maimed in any way…”

“Sherlock, enough.” John steps behind him and puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Go. Do your job. If you want me along, by all means _ask_. You’ve been cooped up here way too long. Sophie will be more than fine—most kids have at least one working parent, anyway. Go on. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock pushes back in his chair and reaches out for his partner, wrapping his long arms around John’s waist and reeling him in, then plasters his face against John’s only-slightly soft stomach and sighs. John knows he’s like a puppy with a bone and if he doesn’t get out of the house soon, there are going repercussions that aren’t going to pretty.

Sherlock stands up and grins, pecking John solidly on the mouth. With his usual dramatic flair, he announces to the empty kitchen as he saunters to the door to slip his shoes on, grabbing a set of keys off the hook on the wall,

“It’s not merely a job, my dearest Watson, it is The Work!”

*******

John wakes and finds himself stretched out on the Queen-sized bed. Sherlock eventually talked himself into a tautology after dozing for about thirty minutes and is currently in the shower where he is loudly mumbling something about shoes versus jump boots.

Whatever. John goes out into the sitting area and takes a few moments to flip through the channels on the telly. After a short cycle of the five channels offered, he gives it up in favor of the paperback from their suitcase. He’s never really been into erotic literature per se, but this one is giving him plenty of ideas of things they might try when they get home.

He starts reading just as the inner door adjacent to the one in the other half of their suite bangs open and a little ball of black hair and lankiness jumps up onto the couch at the speed of sound.

“Daddy! Dad, Dad, Dad! Did you see the air-oh-planes? Oh my gosh! Uncle Mikey brought me this weird fried dough thing called a fumble cake and _then_ we saw some helicopters and oh, did you see the people in the _costumes_? Dad, did you see all the flags? And there were these people! They had a dog in a baby carriage!”

John smiles and waits patiently for his daughter to run out of steam. She’s so much like her father and therefore there is absolutely _no_ point in trying to interrupt when her tongue becomes the slave to her speedy mind. Sophie eventually runs out of words and settles down next to him and holds up the model she’s got clutched in her hand for him to see. John personally checked out the unusual Stealth bomber up close; it seems she’s as impressed with it as he is.

“Very nice, Sophie.”

She grins from ear to ear. “Thanks Daddy,” she says primly. “Uncle Greg got it for me in the gift shop, then I had some popcorn and do you know, Daddy, that someone told me I had a funny accent today, Daddy.”

John waits until she pauses to take a breath then reassures her that the way she speaks is nowhere near as funny as the announcer during the highlights of the aerial show. She giggles and bounces on the bed, holding the shiny black model aloft and making her approximation of airplane noises. Mrs. Hudson appears a few minutes later looking none the worse for the wear and sits down in the armchair closest to Sophie’s side of the sofa.

Sophie’s energy threatens to spill over as she bounds off the couch and runs around the room, Stealth held high. She lets out a shriek when Sherlock steps out of the sleeping area and grabs her in his still-wet arms.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims at his half-dressed appearance as if it is not practically a daily occurrence.

Sherlock is wearing nothing but a fluffy white towel slung over his slim hips and a giggling female version of himself against his bare chest. He cocks an eyebrow and grins his _what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it-nothing-because-I’m-so-cute_ grin at her and turns back to the wriggling four-year old. John rolls his eyes and Mrs. Hudson shakes her head.

“How was your day?” he rumbles.

Sophie wiggles in a way that tells them she wants down and holds the little plane up to him, chattering away. John tunes them out and picks his book up again. Mrs. Hudson pats his arm before she heads back to the part of the suite she’s sharing with Sophie. He relaxes into the sound of a happy child mixed with the deeper tones of Sherlock’s answers and descriptions of his own day. John gets up shortly thereafter in order to clean himself up a bit before they meet with the others for dinner.


	2. Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You idiot, can’t you see that we are family?”

**Chapter Two: Family Reunion**

**Monday**

Douglas Richardson, First Officer for MJN, the tiny charter company from Fitton, UK, is currently suffering through the entire air show with an incredibly chipper Arthur Knapp-Shappey, steward and overall dogsbody for same charter airline, poking him in the ribs every so often to get his attention. It’s like sitting next to a wire-haired terrier that’s been mainlined caffeine. Arthur pokes Douglas hard enough to make him jump and causes his sunglasses to slip right off his face.

“What?!” Douglas grumbles as he grabs at his sunglasses, turning to the young man who is grinning so hard it looks like his face is going to crack.

“Douglas! Up there, did you see the wingwalker?” Arthur bounces up and down in his seat and points to the sky, redundantly.

Douglas thinks of about ten nasty quips he could throw out but Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, CEO of charter airline and Arthur’s alpha-wolf mother, sits on his left hand side. He thinks better of it and simply nods so that he can go back to watching the performance.

So far the entire show has been alright, at least with enough variety that it has kept him interested all morning. He’s a little uncomfortable, though, because Arthur’s got his most recent girlfriend with him and sitting on Carolyn’s other side is Douglas’ long-time rival for the title of Most Awesome Sky God, Hercules Shipwright. It doesn’t help that Hercules is currently the captain of MJN.

Being alone has never been a problem for Douglas, but for some reason he’s chosen today to realize just how _alone_ he actually is. He thinks of his moderate two bedroom home on the outskirts of Fitton and for some reason that makes him feel even more alone. He sighs and puts his hand up over his eyes despite the sunglasses and tries to shake off the doldrums.

The ginger wingwalker in the skin-tight black outfit is now waving at the crowd. Douglas has always had a thing for gingers and his eyes are drawn to the contrast of red and black as the man climbs from the bottom wing to the top. Beside him, Arthur oohs and aahs and sounds so generally astounded that Douglas can’t help but smile, too. Sometimes the steward’s happiness is contagious. Of course, Arthur’s had so many girlfriends in the past month alone that Douglas can’t even remember all their names. Surely that’s one way to make a bloke happy.

Up above them, the agile wingwalker bows at the waist as the plane somersaults and the crowd around them cheers. Douglas thinks that maybe his life isn’t all so bad, at least he gets to fly. Look at that man up there, he tells himself, he’s having the time of his life and he’s doing it all on his own.

***

“Captain” Martin Crieff closes his eyes and leans his head back, allowing the air to push the curls off his face. Spreading his arms wide and kicking out one leg, he fancies he can catch the roar of the crowd below his feet. In reality, all he can hear is the rush of the wind and over that the purring motor of the bi-plane whose wing he is standing on.

For a moment, he wants to revel in the glory that is the weightlessness, the air pushing against his body and the sheer joy he knows must be clear to anyone on the ground. Considering what happened yesterday, some might think his joy misplaced, but he cannot help the elation of being in the sky. In a way, he’s glad he wasn’t in the air yesterday; surely the crash took away from their performance. But, as in all things, the show must go on, so here he is.

As they gain a bit of altitude, Martin opens his eyes and looks over his shoulder at the man piloting the stunt plane. Oddly, Roderick doesn’t hold up his hand and give a thumbs up like he normally does; his face is hidden behind a pair of goggles and an old-fashioned leather helmet.

Martin gives the signal nod anyway, thinking that maybe his pilot is just concentrating on the airspace ahead of them. He knows he is grinning hugely while he prepares for the G-forces he’ll soon be experiencing. He relaxes his knees a little as the plane begins its first roll. Martin steps out carefully across the fabric of the bottom wing and then climbs up the narrow ladder to the top one. The thin-soled trainers he wears allows him to feel his way across the wing with his feet. Once there, he spreads his arms and bows. In his imagination, he hears the applause and he can’t stop smiling.

Behind him, Roderick shifts and the change in the sound of the engine reminds Martin that it’s time to brace himself for the complete turn. Martin grasps the strut of the wing with one hand and waves at the crowd with the other as the little red plane somersaults. Like it has always been before, Martin’s body curves with the motion so that as Roderick begins to pull the plane upward again, he is already climbing back into the starting position.

There’s an odd jerky sensation and the plane bucks a little.

The engine makes a strange stuttering sound and Martin looks to see Roderick slumped against the side of his seat. They are already only about four hundred feet off the ground and that number is shrinking fast. Without thinking, Martin moves across the wing and drops into the empty passenger seat where he grabs the stick and tries to even the plane out enough to land safely. He can hear the faltering sounds of the ground crew attempting to contact Roderick, but Martin doesn’t dare let go the stick to grab the headset from Roderick’s helmet. Right now it is more important to get this plane landed without taking out himself or anyone else.

***

At the opposite end of the viewing line from where the MJN crew is taking in the aerial show, Sherlock is sitting in the grass with Sophie. She’s standing up, her back braced against his chest so that she can watch the planes overhead. A pair of adult sunglasses hangs from the pocket of her denim shorts. Sherlock’s got one hand flat on the ground and the other grasping Sophie’s ankle, supporting the girl.

Several bottles of water and an air show program litter the little round table between John and Mrs. Hudson’s chairs. Sophie is chattering happily with her face turned towards the sky. John leans down and adjusts her hat and she frowns at him.

“Mrs. Hudson, I do believe there’s enough sun cream on Sophie to cover her for the next ten years.” Sherlock quips, wrinkling his nose in an almost perfect imitation of the frown Sophie just gave John.

“Sherlock, you can never be too careful with baby’s skin,” Mrs. Hudson tells him without taking her eyes off the red bi-plane in the air above them. “There’s something familiar about that young man up there, but I can’t quite place it.”

John shields his eyes having lost his sunglasses to Sophie’s iron grip and steel will a little while ago. He watches as the wingwalker waves to the ground from the top wing. “Nope, don’t see it,” he says.

Mrs. Hudson shrugs. “Just me then,” but she misses the piercing look Sherlock is leveling at her back.

“Sherlock, what do you think?” John asks, finally giving up on the chair to stretch out on the ground next to his partner. The constant strain of looking up to the sky is taking its toll on his bad shoulder.

The detective is silent for a moment, his sharp eyes on the plane. Yes, he sees it, but there’s no way that it’s possible. He grunts and doesn’t answer, just kneads at John’s bad shoulder.

John narrows his eyes and sneaks his hand around Sophie’s side, trying to get his sunglasses back as nonchalantly as possible. She squeals and pulls away, landing in a heap between Sherlock’s thighs. She’s fine but as soon as she sees that John’s got his glasses, her bottom lip sticks out and she makes _the_ face.

“Oh god,” John laughs at her tiny moue, “I keep forgetting that now I have two of them. Go on, here you go.” He hands her the glasses and she stuffs them back into her pocket with a cheeky grin the pulls herself up using Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock knows he better come up with an answer, and he’s glad Mycroft and Greg are off hobnobbing with Greg’s friends. He opens his mouth just as the plane above their heads lurches wickedly and starts to pitch towards the ground. It takes him two seconds to calculate the trajectory of the craft and he’s up and pushing Sophie into Mrs. Hudson’s arms before John can register what’s happening.

Sherlock is already running in the direction of the bi-plane when John stands up. He gives Mrs. Hudson a quizzical look but she shakes her head.

“Go, John. We’ll be fine.”

Isn’t she just wonderful? Thinks John as he hightails it after the galloping detective, nodding his head and saying thanks at the same time. Sherlock stays several strides ahead of him, but since it is effectively parting the crowd for him, John holds his speed steady and keeps Sherlock in his sights as he leads them towards the backside of the flight line.

***

Martin desperately needs help, but there is no way he’s reaching for Roderick’s headset. Roderick! He pushes the concern away as quickly as he thinks it. Whatever is or has happened to his pilot, Martin is of no use to him until he gets this plane on the ground. Martin does what he can to keep the bucking craft in line with the horizon, but once the engine stalls for good it’s all pretty much over but the crying. The best he can do now is aim for the backside of the flight line and hope that he hasn’t miscalculated.

As the ground approaches, Martin knows that his only recourse is to relax into the impact. He doesn’t wear a parachute, because at four or five hundred feet it’s pretty much useless: no time to deploy it. Right now, though, he figures he’s got about five seconds before impact. He holds the stick as steady as he can with trembling hands until the first bump of the plane against grass. At least with a bi-plane, its landing gear doesn’t retract, so the tires do soften the blow a little. Even so, he’s jerked forward and slams his head on the instrument panel hard enough to knock him out.

***

Douglas’ first instinct upon seeing the bi-plane lurch awkwardly is to call 999. Which is completely absurd considering they are in _America_ and he’s left his mobile phone on GERTI. His second instinct is to help. He finds himself running towards the crash, telling anyone who tries to get in his way that he’s a trained medic and for some reason half-believing his own lie. Something in his chest is telling him to move _fast_ and since his gut-instinct has never steered him wrong, he listens.

***

Sherlock stops short of the downed bi-plane and John rushes past him, pushing him out of the way. Immediately, Sherlock turns and holds his arms out, stopping the general public from getting in the way. A tall, broad-shouldered older man is jogging towards him, claiming to be a medic. Sherlock sees through the lie but has already deduced that that both the pilot and the wingwalker need help, so he allows the man past him. Sirens fill the air as the safety crew heads towards the crash.

John moves towards the plane cautiously. The ginger wingwalker is slumped against the instrument panel, a light trickle of blood dripping from his ear. Behind him is a man who John thinks is the pilot, wearing a pair of overlarge goggles and a leather helmet of some sort.

“I can help,” a deep, velvety voice says from behind John. He looks over his shoulder and takes in the older man. “I’m not really a medic, but I spent some time in medical school.”

John nods, thinking that if Sherlock let him pass, then he’ll at least be useful. “Fine,” he agrees, “take the wingwalker, he’s slight, and I’ll get the pilot. Mind the ginger’s head.”

“Name’s Douglas,” Douglas allows as he pulls himself up and over the wing to get to the front seat, following the blond-haired man who seems to know what he’s doing.

“John,” John answers, carefully removing the pilot’s headgear. The man’s neck doesn’t seem broken, but when John places his fingers on his jugular, he’s not breathing.

“Can you hear me?” John asks. When there’s no reply, he pulls the man’s eyelids back and notes that the pupils do not respond at all. He’s fairly certain it is too late for the pilot, so he gives the man a respectful nod and scoots sideways so that he is on the opposite side of the wingwalker from Douglas.

“John, he’s alive and I think he may be coming around.”

John tests the wingwalker’s pulse. “I think you’re right,” he agrees. There’s a blast of sound as an ambulance and a fire truck pull up beside them. “Stay here,” John orders. Douglas doesn’t move as the paramedics approach.

John doesn’t give them a chance before he starts answering their unasked questions. “Pilot is DOA, pupils non-responsive, no pulse, and no respiration. Wingwalker is unconscious, judging by his hand on the stick shift, here, looks like he brought the plane down. Little blood from his left ear, possible damage to the ear drum from the quick change in altitude; could have been much worse.” He doesn’t tell them that he’s seen _worse_ and they should just take his word for it.

“Who are you?” The first paramedic asks, skeptical.

“Doctor John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty’s medical corps.” John states blandly as if he’s giving the weather for the day. There are two men who need the attention more than him right now, so he sticks to the short version.

Douglas just stares and wonders if the ginger is single, then quickly rescinds that when a tall, wispy bloke in khaki shorts and a dark blue polo shirt appears and stands quietly beside him. The tall man lurks for about ten seconds then crawls over the wing to plant himself directly in front of the wingwalker, who is mumbling incoherently. John hauls himself up beside the other man and starts talking to the ginger.

Douglas doesn’t hear much more of the conversation, because the two men on the plane move a little ways apart and he gets a look at the ginger’s face. Something in the region of his chest drops to his feet and he wouldn’t move now if fifty stampeding elephants tried to push him away. Douglas determines right then and there that he’s going to get to know this man, one way or the other.

***

Martin’s ears are ringing painfully and his head hurts. Taking a deep breath hurts, too, and so does his hands. He lets go the stick and tries to sit up. Instantly, there’s a rumble of a voice telling him to hold on, help is there. Another man speaks up after the plane vibrates in a way that lets Martin know someone else has climbed up the wing. He opens his eyes and winces at the bright light and then his cloudy attention is pulled to the figure straddling the nose of the plane right in front of him.

He barely feels the fingers on his head as a soft foam cervical collar is snapped in place around his neck. He doesn’t respond to any of the people talking to him now, because he can’t take his eyes off the man with the curly black hair so much like his own. There’s no way he’s seeing this, not here, not now…maybe he hit his head harder than he thought but then someone is taking that man away and the voices get louder…Martin’s got to stop them _right now_ because he’s got to know…the tall man is clambering down off the plane and Martin takes a deep, painful breath but it’s enough for him to raise his voice and he says, very plainly,

“Sherlock?”

***

“Sir, you have to get down from there.” The female paramedic is gesturing towards the ground but Sherlock is completely ignoring her. In light of the fact that he knows he cannot be seeing a ghost, because that is preposterous, and since the wingwalker is very much alive, he figures he’s got a right to do so. Besides, John’s down there and he always…

He lurches sideways as the paramedic grabs his hand and pulls. Sherlock snarls just as the wingwalker’s eyes open and he can see the beginning of recognition in them.

By now the second paramedic is more than a little irked, too. “Oh, I know who _you_ are! You’re the guy who was nosing through yesterday’s crash site, too! Maybe you ought to stick around, I’m sure someone’s gonna have questions for you.”

“What are you trying to say?” John asks, raising his voice a little. He steps toward the paramedic, hands clenched and shoved into the pockets of his shorts.

The paramedic smirks, “Just that it’s weird we’ve had two accidents here in two days and he,” he points rudely in Sherlock’s direction, “has shown up at both of ‘em.”

“Yeah, so have I.” John allows.

“Yeah, well, you look pretty normal and you did say you were a doctor, after all…” The paramedic crosses his arms over his chest, unprofessionally forgetting his duty to the men in the plane.

“That’s it,” John starts to pull back his fist but finds that Douglas has grabbed hold of it. Sherlock snorts disappointedly.

“Shut the fuck up, Embry! We gotta job to do.” The female paramedic shouts, “You three get lost, but don’t leave the area. Embry, if you don’t get your big mule ass up here in three seconds to help me I swear to God I am going to turn you over to freakin’ Higgins.”

The paramedic manages to look abashed and still angry, but he moves to do his job.

“Thanks,” John says to Douglas.

“You’re welcome, as much as Big and Dumb deserves it, you probably don’t want to do that here.” Douglas says as the two of don’t move away very far.

“Hmmm, haven’t heard that accent here much, where are you from?” John asks, keeping his eyes on the paramedics, ready to jump into Captain Mode if he sees them make any mistakes. He’s considering this his case until such time as some authority takes it over. Good Lord, he thinks, I’m getting as bad as Sherlock!

Douglas chuckles, “Fitton. You?”

John finishes his mental face palm and offers his hand for Douglas to shake, “London. You sure you don’t recognize me?”

Douglas pumps the offered hand then looks a little closer. John knows the very second he recognizes them. “Oh!” Douglas chuckles, caught off guard. “I don’t recognize him without that coat and the hat from the papers.”

John grins, glad that their frequent irritation with London’s journalists came in handy this once.

Douglas leans down to whisper in John’s ear, “He sure looks shorter than he does in his pictures, though.”

This time John can’t contain the giggle that escapes his lips. The paramedics are now strapping the wingwalker to a backboard, and the ginger man is openly staring at Sherlock. He jumps a little when John giggles, but other than that barely reacts at all to his surroundings.

When the emergency team picks up the backboard to put it into the ambulance, Sherlock follows them closely.

“Sir,” the woman says, glaring at him, “I can’t let you go along. Since no one has chased you off yet, you are welcome to continue hangin’ around here, but you can’t go any further.”

“I’m sure you’ll find I can.” Sherlock mutters.

The woman frowns, now completely fed up. Embry is pulling the radio off his shoulder and is giving Sherlock a wicked look. John thinks _ever the tattletale_.

“No sir, you can’t,” she states, a bit louder this time.

John grabs Sherlock’s arm, prepared to pull him away before he either gets arrested or socked in the mouth, whichever comes first. Sherlock balks like a mule.

“No, John. Again, you’ll find that I can.” He says, his voice icy and serious.

John knows that tone. He’s only heard it twice before and the memories make him suppress a shudder.

“Why?” The woman finally asks.

Sherlock sighs, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Dammit, Sherlock,” John mutters.

“No, _sir_ ,” the paramedic says again, the thought of how much time they are wasting clearly written on her face. She has closed the doors on the vehicle and is tapping her fingernails against them, waiting on the answer.

Douglas crosses his arms and waits for the answer he’s pretty sure he’s going to hear.

John simply wonders what line Sherlock is going to cross this time, so he’s completely unprepared to hear what comes out of the detective’s mouth next.

“You idiot, can’t you see that we are family?”


	3. Clear for Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...there’s something so fantastical about these men that it drags you into their undertow and gets you caught up in the hurricane, then you ride on a tidal wave the likes you’ve never experienced…and that leaves you physically and emotionally drained...then, as soon as you feel like you can’t take any more, they do something horribly selfless that turns your life upside down

**Chapter Three: Clear for Landing**

In the waiting room of the medical building at the airport, John shifts his weight from leg to leg on an uncomfortable plastic chair. He’s torn between being incredibly shocked and incredibly angry that there’s something _this_ important his partner forgot to tell him about his life. After half an hour, he decides that being angry is useless because he knows from experience that Sherlock will simply use John’s anger as a way to deflect any questions. In his mind, he’s comparing pictures of Mycroft, Sherlock and this wingwalker and he is astounded that Mrs. Hudson saw it from that distance today. He can’t wait to tell her…unless, of course, she already knows.

There is a distinct and very real possibility she does. He’s always felt like there’s more to the sweet lady than meets the eye. John snorts lowly. Hell, at this point he’s not going to be surprised if she turns out to be some long-lost Holmes aunt or something.

Beside him, Douglas shifts in another plastic chair and tosses the crumpled magazine in his hand onto the little table in the corner. He only just realizes that the other man is speaking to him.

“So, you and Sherlock?” Douglas asks.

“Yeah, we have a four-year old daughter named Sophie.” John tells him not without a hint of pride in his voice.

“Oh, I remember reading about that! Right about the time that…” Douglas trails off, hoping he hasn’t offended his new friend.

“Yep,” John answers, then abruptly changes the subject. Some things still hurt. “Douglas, do you know either of those men, the wingwalker or the pilot?”

“No, but I’d like to get to know the live one a little better.” Douglas is too late to stop the words that come out more cockily than he’d intended—not that he intended to say them out loud in the first place. Well, now they’re out there and he can’t take them back—at least it’s good that something about John just makes him think he can share the truth with him.

John actually smiles. “Well, then, I guess that makes two of us then.”

“How are they related?”

“I’ve no idea,” John tells him truthfully, “I found out the same second you did.”

“Wow,” Douglas says, for want of a better word. “That’s…well, actually, I don’t know what that is.” He frowns at the sickly yellow tile floor, considering whether anything similar has ever happened to him. The entrance/exit door slides open, effectively halting their conversation.

John starts to reply, but instead shrugs his shoulders as a police officer makes his way over to them. They each receive the standard line of questioning, most of which John can answer, then they are both told not to leave the area for the next couple of days. They agree; John gives Douglas his mobile number. He tells John that he has to go and find Carolyn, his boss, to let her know he’s stuck here until he’s cleared officially because he couldn’t resist the impulse to _help_. John wishes him luck and thinks that maybe help wasn’t the _strongest_ instinct pushing Douglas forward.

John totally understands it though, especially when he remembers a certain tall someone peering at him from behind a lab table and asking in a voice that was like stroking satin: “Afghanistan or Iraq?” Yeah, John gets it. Hell, even Greg figured it out…there’s something so fantastical about these men that it drags you  into their undertow and gets you caught up in the hurricane, then you ride on a tidal wave the likes you’ve never experienced…and _that_ leaves you physically and emotionally drained.

 _Then,_ as soon as you feel like you can’t take any more, they do something horribly selfless that turns your life upside down; John will never say there was so much that didn’t hurt, but for the strength of their bond now, he would never change a single minute of his life. Because being alive with pain beats the alternative and all of the milestones in their lives he would have missed. Each one of those past pains has been soothed by the balm of an unusual—and mostly hidden—deep well of passion: both Sherlock’s and his own.

In John’s mind, there’s a large possibility that whoever this _other one_ is, maybe he’s a little different? Maybe on a more even keel, emotionally, than Sherlock? Mycroft belongs in his own category: big brother, father figure…and that’s for more than just Sherlock. John has seen the man change in surprising ways just since he’s known him.

John looks around the tiny deserted waiting room, a headache beginning to pound at his temples. Sadly, this is not the worst place he’s ever waited on a Holmes…indeed, their lives are never dull.

He closes his eyes and allows his mind to wander. When Sherlock reappears, looking sheepish and concerned, John cannot say for certain about which item on the list he is feeling either of those things for: leaving something this important out of their lives, or perhaps the identity of the wingwalker. John says nothing but tilts his head towards the small ward. Sherlock nods and leads his partner to the room where his youngest brother is recovering.

***

Martin is by no means unfamiliar with shock. Doing what he does for a living, it’s not the first time he’s experienced it. Of course, considering the things that happened in his younger years…but he doesn’t want to think about those things anymore. What he wants to focus his mind on right now is the fact that his older brother is alive and well. He wonders what the means about the eldest? He’s never been the luckiest person on the planet, and as much as his plane falling out of the sky and Roderick dying hurts...there’s still a little bit around the edges of the situation that feels _lucky_. Lucky that there are still people around who care enough about other people to help out. Granted, the doctor told him he’d been in control of the plane during its awkward descent, but Martin won’t chalk that up to luck—on the other hand, he’s not sure what else to call it.

Somehow between the nausea, a telephone call to his employer, and a staff doctor flitting in and out of the little room, Sherlock remains with his back against the wall, an elegant, unmoving sentinel. After what seems like hours, but is only about forty-five minutes according to the clock, he finds himself alone with his brother for the first time in almost twenty years.

Frankly, it’s been a really rough day and he doesn’t know how to feel about any of it so he sits in the rickety little bed with his back against the pillows and stares. His forte has always been flying, not coming to grips with fresh glimpses into a life he thought he’d never have to face again. After a few minutes of receiving the same intense scrutiny he remembers from his early teen years, he clears his throat.

“So.”

Sherlock’s expression goes from penetrating to openly curious at the scratchy sound of Martin’s voice. Martin is amazed to see how fast Sherlock seems to process every little detail Martin knows he’s giving off without even trying. The silence is heavy between them as neither of them seems to have the ability to say what he’s thinking. The emotional constipation is going to kill their chances before they even begin.

Sherlock pushes off the wall with a dramatic flourish. Martin’s not stupid, he’s seen his brother in the papers and knows what that would look like if he had been wearing that ridiculous coat. When they were younger, they’d found some old clothes in the attic and after that, Sherlock had worn their grandfather’s old brown trench coat until he’d torn it to shreds climbing trees.

“Be right back,” the detective rumbles. He spins on his heels, then he’s gone.

Now that he’s alone, Martin finds himself besieged by memories of the crash. He blinks back tears of frustration at his friend and pilot dying; at his inability to greet his long-missed brother properly; at the crash of such a beautiful little plane…just everything. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, allowing himself a few moments to grieve.

When the urge to cry finally subsides, Martin takes a look around the tiny room. He doesn’t have his mobile; the doctor had been nice enough to allow him to use his. There’s nothing in here to read and he has no way of knowing if Sherlock’s just going to disappear again. Martin sighs, frustrated. Since he’s not allowed to go to sleep for a while yet, he can at least pass the time reciting airplane parts in his head.

By the time he’s gotten to _aileron_ _,_ the door swings open and this time Sherlock’s brought the blond man from the crash site with him. Martin may not be the luckiest man in the world, but he is a Holmes and he isn’t stupid; even so with the concussion, it takes him a full twenty seconds to figure it out.

“Oh,” he says quietly as the puzzle pieces fall together.

The blond man’s expression brightens in surprise. “Oh my god, there’s no doubt now,” he says while he stares at Martin.

“Sherlock, did you hug your brother?”

Sherlock tilts his head in the man’s direction but doesn’t say anything. A curl falls down over his forehead as he scrunches his nose up and studies the floor.

“Dammit, I’m sorry.” Before he can react, Martin finds himself in the embrace of a man who is obviously his brother’s lover whose name he isn’t sure he knows. “Hi, I’m John Watson and apparently you already know Sherlock.”

Martin feels a smile break out over his face. “I know now, your name is familiar! I’m sorry, too, whenever I’ve seen Sherlock’s picture somewhere, I’ve not ever looked at it too closely…”

Martin stops as his throat tightens up. John gives him the most compassionate look of understanding he’s ever received and the tears that threatened earlier finally spill over. “Oh god,” he mumbles, wiping at his face.

“Martin,” Sherlock says, still warily watching Martin like he’s going to get up and run away.

“Sherlock, get over here.” John gets up and Sherlock takes his place. Sherlock drops an arm over Martin’s shoulder and hauls him in close to his side. Martin decides he’ll take what he can get and buries his face into the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and sobs. Sherlock’s fingers tighten around Martin’s shoulder and Martin knows without being told that he’s remembering the same thing Martin is: the way they were never allowed to say goodbye.

When he finally gets himself under control enough to look up, Martin is thrown for a loop to see that Sherlock’s eyes are red, too. John has pulled up the single chair in the room and is holding Sherlock’s other hand. He is beaming at them.

A knock on the doorframe breaks into their quiet reunion. The doctor from earlier has some papers for Martin to sign that will allow him to leave. He signs quickly and listens politely as the doctor outlines what he needs to do and not do for the next few days. He wants to see Martin back in forty-eight hours, but other than that he is free to go back to his hotel room or hang around the grounds; however, he is strictly not allowed to fly until the doctor decides he can do so. Martin agrees to it all then rubs his forehead.

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” Sherlock states clearly.

Martin knows he’s blushing and he feels like a complete idiot. “No,” Roderick and I were supposed to be on the East Coast by tonight and then home by the end of the week.

“Where’s home?” John queries.

“Fitton.”

“Really?” John and Sherlock share a look.

“Alright, he can stay with us. We’ve got plenty of room.” Sherlock says in answer to the question that obviously must have drifted from John to Sherlock in the air between them.

Sherlock’s gaze moves from John to Martin and he nods. “Come on, Martin, sounds like we have a lot to tell you.”

Martin smiles weakly and gets to his feet to find that he’s still a little shaky.

“That’s normal, Martin. Lean on me until you feel like you’d be more comfortable walking, alright?” John offers his hand and Martin leans against him. “There you go.” Though they stand the same height, John’s sturdy build offers Martin stability. They leave the clinic that way, Sherlock walking ahead of them a few paces.

***

John’s heart threatens to break in half when he sees Sherlock hug his little brother close to him when they step out of the lift. Soon, they are sitting in their suite, Martin on the sofa with his legs stretched out in front of him, Sherlock with his legs crossed at the end of it and John in one of the armchairs. Mrs. Hudson left a note that she and Sophie went swimming and should be back before tea.

John looks at his watch, surprised that it’s only half-past three in the afternoon. That means his two favorite ladies should return at any time now. Martin is telling them about working for Triple-W Aerial Shows and how much he enjoys his job. He and Roderick are currently two of the four employees, though the loss of one of the three pilots is going to hit the small company pretty hard. John is impressed that Sherlock seems to be listening, even hanging on every word with a hungry look in his eyes; giving a little head nod and murmuring in the right places.

Martin has not asked about Mycroft again, but John runs out of time to ponder this because in true Sophie style, she barrels through the door as soon as Mrs. Hudson unlocks it and makes a bee-line for her father, wet bright pink swim suit and all.

Sherlock laughs and John thanks Mrs. Hudson as she glides towards her side of the suite to change. She pats John’s hand and looks over to Martin with raised eyebrows and a faint glimmer of recognition.

“I’ll explain shortly,” John tells her. It’s a long story.

She smiles. “Shall I order up tea?” I know.

“Or whatever passes for it in this place.” Sherlock answers then kisses Sophie’s sopping curls.

Sophie giggles and thumps her bare feet against Sherlock’s thighs. She wiggles around and finally takes notice of Martin, who cannot take his eyes off her. Over Sophie’s head, Sherlock is watching the two of them with the interest he usually reserves for crime scenes.

“Papa?” Sophie’s voice is curious, but not fearful.

“Sophie,” John calls her attention to him for a second, “this is your uncle Martin, Papa’s little brother.”

Sophie looks from John to Sherlock then to Martin and back to Sherlock. Sherlock nods.

“I have two uncles?” she asks.

“Yes,” John answers at the same time Sherlock says, “Well…”

“Well, hello!” chirps Mrs. Hudson as she steps though the adjacent door as if she wasn’t in the same room with them five minutes ago. “You must be Martin! Are you the wingwalker from earlier today? I thought there was something familiar about you!”

John is gobsmacked. “You knew?”

Mrs. Hudson nods, told you. “Sure, I did. After Mr. Holmes died, I took care of Sherlock for Mycroft when he had to be away for work.”

John stares after her as she swans to the little refrigerator. She bends down and takes out a colorful plastic cup with a lid and hands it over to Sophie who gulps down the juice inside, her big eyes taking in all the adults in the room one at a time.

“Let me see,” Mrs. Hudson settles in the other chair, her hand over her mouth for a second, “I believe Sherlock would have been about sixteen then, is that right Sherlock?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but John can tell by Sherlock’s face that she’s right.

“I was thirteen,” Martin says softly.

Sherlock nods.

“Sherlock, why have you never told me any of this?” John asks, keeping his voice level. He’s not really angry, per se, but he thought the time of secrets between them was over a long ago.

Of course, Sherlock’s got a logical answer for that, “You never asked.”

Who can argue with solid logic? John Watson, that’s who.

“I…”

“Yes, John, you assumed Mycroft and I were the only siblings.” Sherlock states, his eyes on Sophie as she leans forward into Martin’s space. She’s as intent in her scrutiny of this new relative as Sherlock was earlier.

They all watch her and John even pulls out his phone to grab some pictures as she army crawls across the sofa until she ends up standing eye-to-eye with Martin. He keeps his arm across the back and his other hand flat as she approaches.

“She won’t bite you, Martin,” John says when he sees Martin gulp as the little girl studies him.

Martin says nothing, however, staring at her with open curiosity as she reaches out to touch his hair.

“It’s pretty, Daddy,” she tells them.

“It is.” John agrees. Mrs. Hudson chuckles.

“Like Papa’s, but not,” Sophie deduces. She looks over her shoulder at Sherlock. He sees what she wants and leans down without being asked. Sophie gently springs one of the ebony curls with one hand and does the same to Martin’s. She laughs and pulls a bit too hard on both of their heads.

“Ouch!” Martin exclaims and Sherlock grits his teeth.

Sherlock pries Sophie’s fingers out of his hair where they’ve tightened to keep her from falling. She gives him a pat and throws her arms around Martin’s neck.

“Didn’t mean to hurt you, ‘s sorry.”

Martin, completely dumfounded, hugs the little girl back. His life has changed so much today that he is overwhelmed. Sophie pulls back and touches his cheek, then brings her wet finger up to get a better look at it.

“Why you cryin’, Uncle Martin?” she wonders.

“I’m happy,” he tells her. Sophie plops herself down in his lap as there’s a quick knock at the door.

John lets in room service, a young woman wearing a sharply-pressed uniform and pushing a silver serving cart. He is happy to see the tea pot and full complement of biscuits. There’s even a small glass jar of what looks to be honey.

“Mr. Holmes?” The woman asks the room at large.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers.

“I have a message from the other Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade,” John waits for the inevitable Sherlockian correction when she says Greg’s name—Lay Strayed—but the current warm and fuzzy atmosphere must be affecting the detective, too. He simply looks at her.

“They say that they won’t be in until much later tonight and they will meet you in the morning. Mr. Holmes especially sends his regards to Mr. Crieff. He says that your performance was shaping up to be excellent and he is sorry to hear about Mr. Pietz. I’m supposed to give you this,” she holds an envelope out and John takes it and passes it to Martin.

Mrs. Hudson reaches over and squeezes Martin’s shoulder. “That’s just Mycroft’s way, Martin, dear. Think nothing of it other than he cares and wants to see you.” She smiles.

Martin nods dumbly and thinks that his inability to speak around his seriously-expanded family has got to stop. Surely, they must all think him a complete idiot.

“You’re not an idiot.” Sherlock tells him as he holds a cup of tea out. Martin takes it with shaking fingers. He sips it and makes a face.

“Decaffeinated, Martin, sorry. You need to take it easy on your head,” John tells him. Ah. That was almost easy to forget about in light of everything else. He sets the hot cuppa down on the coffee table and stuffs the little envelope into the waist band of his soft trousers to read later.

John takes note of the fact Martin is still wearing his show clothes. “Would you like to change?”

“Actually, you know, I really would. My street clothes are in the plane…” Martin covers his mouth with his hand. “How bad was it?” he asks around his fingers.

“The landing?” John asks him.

“That wasn’t a landing, John, it was a crash.” Martin corrects.

John shakes his head, putting his own cup down as Sophie climbs up into his lap, a biscuit in each hand. “No, Martin, with all due respect, trust me. It could have been a hundred times worse. I’m no pilot, but that was an amazing landing considering…”

“…that you had no engine power at all,” Sherlock finishes for him.

“God, I forgot he did that," Martin states, apropos of nothing.

“He’s always done that?” John grins.

“Yeah, when we were kids he used to scare the crap out of everyone at the library…” Martin settles back against the sofa and lets his memories wash over him, cleansing his heart and his mind. John doesn’t appear to pay any attention to Martin’s instant silence, instead he sits down on the floor to hang out with Sophie for a bit until he’s ready to start the conversation back up again.

They eventually have dinner sent up to the room. Mrs. Hudson and Sophie head back down to the pool and Martin finds himself hoarse from talking so much. John fetches him a pair of John’s own p.j’s and Martin crawls into the sofa bed completely exhausted but feeling more connected than he has in a very long time.


	4. Family

**Chapter Four: Family**

**Tuesday morning**

_THUD! THUD! THUD!_

John rolls over and peers at the clock on the bedside table through bleary eyes: 9:00 AM. He reaches out with his right hand and feels the still-warm space next to him where Sherlock had been a little while ago. A pleasant memory of an evening spent reminiscing and hearing stories of his partner’s younger years springs to his mind. He grunts sleepily and considers turning back over and catching a bit more shut-eye.

BANG! BANG!

Dammit. That’s not going to happen. He hears Sherlock’s muffled voice through the door of their little WC, requesting that whomever is making the awful racket be allowed in, preferably before they disturb the two youngest Holmes. Just as John is getting to his feet and groping for his bottoms, Sherlock appears fully dressed, hair neat and tidy. John shakes his head and heads towards the loo.

Sherlock stops him with a hand on his arm and John tiptoes up to kiss him. Judging by the black trousers and light blue button-down, they are working today. He is going to take a shower, then.

“Be out shortly.”

“You won’t want to miss this,” Sherlock tells him with a lifted eyebrow.

John holds up one finger, “Right. Hang on, then.” He does an abbreviated run through of his morning routine, skipping the shower, then pulls a pair of jeans and a bright blue T-shirt from the suitcase. If Sherlock wants to broil all day, that’s his business, but John certainly doesn’t have to. As he dresses, he listens to what’s happening in the other room.

“Mr. Holmes,” is spoken by a cool, masculine voice, someone who is accustomed to issuing orders and having them followed without question.

“Yes,” Sherlock almost-mumbles in reply. John knows from experience this means the detective is setting up his guard. John zips his jeans and forgets about trying to straighten out his hair.

“Mr. Holmes, we have been advised that you are willing to help us with the body that was found at the crash on Sunday.” The broad-shouldered, steel-jawed military policeman looks uncomfortable under the gaze of three separate Holmes when John enters the room.

Sophie has planted herself in Martin’s lap. He is sitting in the center of the sofa bed with the covers pulled up over his chest. Sophie, Martin, and Sherlock remind John forcefully of a bunch of vultures waiting on their victim to die so they can pluck his bones. He silently thanks whatever deity is listening that Mycroft is otherwise occupied or this poor sergeant would never have a chance. Not with this crowd.

“At ease,” John mutters as he winds his way around the furniture. Still got it, he thinks when all of them relax visibly.

The MP forges ahead after realizing that he’s not going to get much of an answer. He clears his throat. “The body found two days ago is not one of the pilots signed on to perform here.”

John clearly hears the unspoken sir at the end of that statement. He ignores it and rummages in the little fridge for a bottle of grape juice.

No one says anything, so the man takes it to mean he should continue. “The body is not one of our pilots because all of the pilots we had signed up for Sunday were men. In fact, this body is not a ‘he’ at all, it is that of an unknown woman.”

John takes a drink of the juice, so he doesn’t hear the complete Sherlocky reply, but he knows it is something along the lines of ‘I knew that, I’m not an idiot.’ The MP nods, salutes John and is out the door much more quietly than he entered.

“Well, John?”

“Martin, will you be okay with Mrs. Hudson and Sophie for a while?” John ignores Sherlock for the moment.

“Yes, I have nowhere else to be.” Martin answers, offering up a weak smile as the truth of the statement dawns on him.

“Good then. You are welcome to any of the clothes I have in the suitcase in the bedroom, then, until we can get your stuff.” He turns to Sherlock. “I take it we have a meeting place?”

Sherlock nods and crosses the room to bang on the other door. “Mrs. Hudson, John and I are going to work!” He leans down and plucks Sophie off the bed and she wraps both of her little arms around his neck; he kisses the top of her head and she looks up at him, dazzled. Martin and John grin at each other as Mrs. Hudson opens the door and sticks her curler-covered head into the room.

“But you haven’t eaten breakfast!” she says, patting the collar of her old purple dressing gown.

“I’ll make sure John gets fed,” Sherlock quips as he sweeps towards the exit after putting Sophie down on the floor. She narrows her eyes at him and climbs right back up onto the sofa bed with Martin.

John double checks that it’s all okay with Martin and Sophie then follows close on his partner’s heels.

“Bye Daddy, Bye Papa!” Sophie calls out to them with a giggle as she stretches her fingers out towards Martin’s sleep-mussed hair.

***

In his whole thirty-three years of life, Martin has not spent much time with children. One glance at those huge green eyes gazing intently at him from beneath silky curls and he has to admit that he’s completely smitten. Sophie captures his attention so completely that he didn’t even realize John was taking pictures last night until after the third one.

Martin recalls last night’s conversations, allowing the Sherlock and John’s closeness wash over him. It is a balm to everything else that happened yesterday; certainly it doesn’t take it all away, but it isn’t hurting as badly, either.

He hears the inner door open between the two halves of the suite. Small, soft footsteps cross the carpet and the thin mattress dips as Sophie clambers up beside him.

“Good morning, Uncle Martin,” the little girl says cheerily, enunciating each word properly.

“Morning, Niece Sophie,” Martin opens his eyes and looks over to where she has snuggled up against his ribs.

She giggles, “Just Sophie, Uncle Martin.”

“Well, then, I’m Just Martin, Just Sophie.” Martin laughs, too.

A loud bang on the door causes Martin to jump and sit up quickly against the sofa back. Sophie scrambles along with him and sits down between his thighs as he pulls the blanket up to his neck. A couple of minutes later, Sherlock saunters in and Martin has a front-row seat to the life that his brother leads.

***

When John and Sherlock enter the meeting room housed in another of the ubiquitous gray buildings around half the perimeter of the airport, it is to see the same two policemen from Sunday standing against the wall with their arms crossed; the MP that came to their suite earlier is nowhere to be seen. Neither of the officers look pleased to see Sherlock.

In turn, he is coolly assessing them and John knows full well he’s looking for buttons to push. John clears his throat to remind him that they really need to play nice with the Americans—not to mention it looks as if they are armed to the teeth.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and takes an empty seat at the large table that dominates the space. John crosses behind him to the coffee pot set out against the wall and makes them both a cup. Knowing that Sherlock won’t drink it, he dumps a bunch of sugar into it and sets it down on the table anyway then takes the chair next to him. The officers remain standing.

The first officer begins to speak but is interrupted when the door opens again. Greg Lestrade pokes his rumpled silver head into the room, notes the policemen and closes it. When he comes back through a few seconds later, it’s obvious that he’s made an effort to tame his hair. Of course he cannot hide the edge of the love bite on his neck peeking out over the collar of his shirt, but John’s not going to say anything. Sherlock, without missing a beat, inhales and starts to speak but John shoves his leg hard with his knee and it seems to quell the impulse for now. John smiles and Sherlock smirks, caught out.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard.” Greg introduces himself to the officers, intentionally leaving out the part about being sent as an intermediary by Sherlock’s older brother. They introduce themselves as Sergeants Penn and Barkley.

Sherlock forgets their names as soon as he hears them.

Greg takes the seat at the table opposite Sherlock as the policemen begin unraveling what they know so far.

After the body had been taken to the morgue, it was discovered that what they believed to be the pilot of the little plane that crashed and burned is actually an unknown female.

Naturally, Sherlock takes over the conversation at this point and plows straight ahead into knowing that the body was no pilot because she was wearing hiking boots, not jump boots, and the brown flight bag she was carrying was way too clean to have been in a crash.

“The woman had been wearing gloves, I did manage to peel one back long enough to note that her hands were soft and pink; no way was she using them to grip the gear shift of a plane nor the straps of a parachute for any length of time. Obvious.”

Sherlock shuts his mouth with a disappointed huff when no one tells him how brilliant he is. John chuckles warmly at the twin expressions of those unused to his methods on the officers’ faces. Greg takes it all in stride, but the two Americans are certainly caught off guard.

Later, John will find out that they swore they both watched him the entire time he was at the scene and cannot figure out how he absorbed that much information that quickly.

All-in-all, John thinks, business as usual.

Not really, though. Since Sherlock returned to them, and to him, John has noticed that his partner has changed in more ways than one. There are times when John sees Sherlock making an attempt to control his runaway mouth, because both of the crash sites could have been seriously worse for all involved. Sunday was the first time in a while where Sherlock let loose enough to flat-out rail at other investigators and crime scene techs.

Somehow, though he knows he’s almost always right, he seems more comfortable in his own skin and doesn’t let his mouth overrule his brain as often as he did prior to being dead.

Now with a younger sibling in the mix, John is starting to get a fuller picture of the parts of Sherlock’s life he’s never been quite able to imagine. This Sherlock is most certainly a calmer version of the one before.

They walk across the grounds towards the hotel, John thinking and Sherlock quiet.

“Are you interested, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” the detective stops and answers.

“You blew them off.”

“They didn’t exactly ask if I wanted the case.” Sherlock states.

“They asked for your help, didn’t they?”

“It’s not the same, John.”

“Right. Am I missing something?”

“No.”

John raises his head and rests his hand on Sherlock’s arm, forcing Sherlock to look at him.

“I need to think about it, that’s all.” Sherlock waves his other hand in the air.

“Sherlock.” John knows better, but he also trusts his partner.

“Alright then, shall we join everyone for that breakfast Mrs. Hudson is so concerned about?” Sherlock kisses him on the tip of his nose.

“Sure,” John answers, glad to be anywhere that the detective is. He’s missing Sophie, too, though, and reminds himself that they are supposed to be on holiday.

***

“Daddy! Papa!” Sophie shrieks as she climbs out of her chair and runs across the packed dining room when Sherlock and John enter. People watch her as she crosses the floor and some of them even smile when Sherlock scoops her up into his arms. He nuzzles noses with her and she leans over to hug John’s neck, too.

The onlookers turn back to their breakfasts while they make their way to their table occupied by Martin and Mrs. Hudson. Martin is wearing one of John’s old soft army T-shirts and a borrowed pair of khaki shorts. Mrs. Hudson is dressed in a flowery blouse that oddly matches the skort Sophie has on. She’s tried to tame the little girl’s hair, but the curls are pulling out of the pony tail every which way but the right one.

Even so, John loves his messy-haired people. “Sophie, you look radiant today, love.”

Sophie grins then stops chewing her bacon as she contemplates the new word. “Daddy, what’s ‘radiant?’” A crispy piece drops onto her pink shirt. She frowns at it and pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, then pops it into her mouth.

“It means joyful or happy, Sophie,” Sherlock defines.

“Is that way I am, then?” She clutches at the little Stealth model that is sitting beside her plate.

“Indeed you are,” Mycroft says from behind her, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

Sophie squeals, “Uncle Mycroft! I thought you and Uncle Greg got lost!”

He hauls her up out of the seat to give her hug but finds very quickly that she’s been confiscated by Greg, who is looking much less rumpled than he had a little while ago.

“Uncle Greg! I saw a Stealth bomber and these people with a dog in a baby carriage and there was a policeman in our room this morning and then I played in the pool with Uncle Martin and Daddy says I am radiant!” She babbles at him and he grins back. When she finally pauses to take a breath, Greg puts her back in her seat and offers his hand to the newcomer.

“Please to meet you, Martin, I’ve heard a lot about you in the past twelve hours.”

“You have?” Martin asks, looking at his eldest brother.

Mycroft tries not to look embarrassed, but he’s so proud to see that Martin has made his own way in the world that he’s positive he’s been telling Greg more than his husband would ever want to know about their childhoods. Not that he’ll ever admit that out loud to anyone.

“Yes he has. I have to tell you how proud I am of you, Martin.”

Martin beams and blushes at the same time. Mrs. Hudson hands out menus from the stack on the center of the table and they all make their choices. The waitress who takes them smiles and even goes so far as to give Martin a little wink as she goes to turn in their orders.

“Uncle Martin! Why did that lady just wink at you?” Sophie asks, her eyes wide.

A little ripple of amusement goes around the table. “Uh,” Martin starts.

“Not my area.” John finishes for him.

Greg raises an eyebrow while Mycroft hides a smirk behind his tea cup. Sherlock just gives John a look.

“It’s exactly what Sherlock said to me,” John offers with a shrug.

“I don’t understand,” Sophie announces.

“You will, eventually,” John tells her as Sherlock’s mouth starts to open.

Soon, their food arrives and the table is quiet for a few moments while the men and Mrs. Hudson dig into their plates. After a few bites, Martin finds that he’s got a burning question he needs answered.

“Mycroft, do you have any contact with Sher…”

Just then, Sophie dumps her orange juice and everyone is forced to grab napkins to sop up the mess. They get it reasonably cleaned up and Martin turns back to Mycroft, but their conversation is halted because Douglas, the man Martin saw yesterday, has stepped up to their table and is staring at Martin as if he cannot believe his eyes.

“Good morning,” Douglas says. There’s a pleasant murmur of agreement from around the table.

“I wanted to come over and introduce myself properly, to you Mr. Crieff. I am Douglas Richardson, First Officer for MJN charters.”

Martin nods and pushes his chair back so that he can shake hands. There is most certainly something about this man that catches his interest. And apparently, he likes flying. He holds his hand out.

“Well, you already know who I am, but this is my family.” He gestures towards the table and feels a sense of pride not unlike that of hearing the applause from the crowd after a successful show. Once again, there’s a round of pleasant murmurs and Douglas nods.

“I am wondering, perhaps, later, if you have some time, if you’d like to have lunch with me? I’m going to be grounded for the next day or so and I’m not from around here…” Douglas asks, too scared not to get it out in the open right from the get-go.

Martin laughs nervously, knowing that they are all still watching him. “Obviously,” Sherlock and Mycroft both cock an eyebrow at their brother. “I work for Triple W Wingwalkers out of Fitton, I’m sure it’s such a small place you’ve never heard of it…”

Douglas grins broadly. “Of course I have, I live not too far from Fitton Airport.”

Martin does a double-take. “I’ve never seen you there before.”

“Well,” Douglas drawls, “when I’m in my uniform, I am all Sky God.” He winks playfully.

Martin is blown away. How in the world has he captured the attention of someone so…so? Actually he finds that he doesn’t even have a word for it. He finally manages to stammer, “So, lunch, yeah, back here?”

“Sounds great!” Douglas grabs Martin’s hand again but this time doesn’t quite let go, holding onto it for longer than necessary.

Martin watches him leave and turns to his family where he’s greeted by warm smiles and one sagely smirking consulting detective. He rubs his left hand over his right, still feeling the heat from the way Douglas’ big paw almost dwarfed his own.

***

Douglas walks away from the table, hoping that he is hiding his trembling limbs. His fingers feel strangely warm where he shook Martin’s hand. He berates himself, thinking it is ridiculous to be acting like silly teenager. Granted, the red-head is absolutely gorgeous, and hopefully as unattached as he seems to be. Douglas will certainly be looking forward to lunch. Surely the Fates have smiled on him today.

He’s always been an incorrigible flirt and hopes he hasn’t laid it on too thick. Douglas worries a little as he makes his way back out to the show grounds to find his boss.

***

Sherlock primly peels a hard-boiled egg while Sophie polishes off what’s left of his bacon. Mycroft has been studying his brothers for a while, not saying anything but taking small sips from his tea cup. John and Greg chat amicably while Martin just looks gobsmacked.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft clears his throat. Sherlock doesn’t look at him but continues to peel his egg, one anally retentively tiny piece of shell at a time so that there’s an almost obscene tearing noise as it comes away from the egg. “This was not meant to be a working holiday.” The egg shell peeling is getting on his nerves, but he’ll never let on.

Sherlock flicks his gaze towards Martin who smiles at John. He holds the now naked egg in his long fingers and seriously looks like he wants to launch it across the table. Even Sophie seems to be waiting on the edge of her seat. Mrs. Hudson makes a funny noise in the back of her throat that John is fairly certain is her equivalent of ‘stand down.’

As always, her ability to handle Holmes siblings should ensure her sainthood. John thinks about talking to Mycroft about that.

Sherlock knows he’s got an audience now so he pops the entire egg into his mouth, giving John a really bad idea about how he wants to spend his afternoon. Sherlock grins around the shiny thing and Sophie claps her hands and laughs. Mrs. Hudson sighs and rolls her eyes. Martin giggles and Greg chuckles.

John laughs out loud then shrugs when Mycroft glares at him. John can read the admonishment in his expression. He shouldn’t enjoy it, but it’s so much fun when they all turn into teenagers for a little while.

With some finesse, Sherlock finishes the egg and wipes his face politely with Sophie’s napkin.

“It’s a case,” he tells Mycroft with some finality.

Well, that was all John needs to hear. It is quickly decided that they are going to go and meet with Penn and Barkley.

“Whom?” asks Sherlock, doing his best to look convincing.

John ignores him. Mrs. Hudson thinks that she and Sophie are going to go hang out at the pool, apparently Greg is going with them.

“Martin, would you be averse to spending some time with me today?” Mycroft asks.

“Not at all,” Martin answers, “though I do need to go by my plane and see if they’ll let me get my bag out of it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Mycroft allows. He collects his credit card back from the waitress then turns to Sherlock and says cryptically, “Truly, Sherlock, be careful where you poke about this afternoon.”

John looks quizzically up at his partner who pretends to be blind. They both hug Sophie and watch her leave with Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Martin and Mycroft go out towards the front of the building.

“Wow,” John says under his breath.

Sherlock rests his hand on John’s shoulder for a minute then sweeps past, ready to get into the case.


	5. Data

**Chapter Five: Data: non-existent and enough  
**

**Later Tuesday morning**

This investigation is not going well. Not at all.

Sherlock and John meet up with the American officers, all of them piling into the back of a monstrous black SUV that would not even meet Mycroft’s criteria of class. Sherlock sits in a tight ball next to John, chewing his tongue in annoyance at the presumptuousness of it all. Sherlock’s irritation is palpable, it’s coming off the detective in waves; thought John thinks he’s the only one aware of it because he knows Sherlock’s usual ways of working cases so well. Hell, they almost share hair follicles at this point: when one of them shivers, the other one gets goose bumps.

Soon they are in a morgue across town from the airfield, staring down at an otherwise unnamed healthy petite brunette female. Outwardly, her body is virtually unscathed, her manicure intact, face unblemished. John notices no contusions on her; she’s even without the light bruising like the ones Martin suffered yesterday. That is to be expected though: corpses don’t bruise. However, one fact they didn’t have yesterday has now been made perfectly clear:

Every single bone in her pelvis, legs and feet has been systematically crushed.

John can easily see the damage done prior to the woman’s death; she was alive long enough after the fact that some of the smaller bones in her feet show proof of healing. He shakes his head at this level of cruelty and tries not to think of looming specters from the past—one in particular he doesn’t want to think about at all.

John clears his throat. “Sherlock, look here,” he says as he holds an x-ray of one of her feet up to the light box on the wall. He points at several odd, ridged areas. “See the metatarsals here?” The detective nods.

“Right, then, this shows that she was alive after some of these breaks long enough for them to begin knitting back together.”

Sherlock’s eyes light for a second then grow cold when he asks, “About how long?”

“Anywhere from fourteen to twenty-one days on the smallest one here.” John pokes at the x-ray with his index finger.

Sergeant Barkley walks into the room and takes up a position behind them, from where he can clearly see everything they are doing. He says nothing but seems to be watching Sherlock very closely.

“Two to three weeks. Whoever did this held her captive for that long.” Sherlock glides around the autopsy table then leans over the woman, arms spread, weight resting on his gloved hands. John’s eyes meet his from opposite ends of the table; John can tell Sherlock is imagining all sorts of horrors that can be done to a human being in that amount of time.

“Was she dehydrated? Do you think she suffered starvation?”

“No,” John answers, slipping on a pair of gloves in order to look closer at her fingernails. He holds her right hand up so that it catches the light, carefully chipping off some of the nail polish still adhering. “No Mee’s lines, either. I don’t think she was poisoned or drugged, Sherlock. Sadly, except for the broken bones and the pain that would have produced, she seems to have been cared for, relatively speaking.”

Never really mortified at details such as this, Sherlock isn’t exactly walking around talking about how the case is ‘like Christmas’ either, so John knows he’s not as unaffected as most people believe.

“She knew her abductor then, most likely her killer, too.” Sherlock tells him, then begins rattling off a string of deductions as they present themselves as he walks around the table once more for good measure.

Barkley merely snorts and makes snide comments under his breath with every word that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth. The officer stares coldly at Sherlock with every deduction he throws out about the woman. Just past her thirtieth birthday, two kids, a dog, a parrot, husband. She seems so normal, at least in John’s eyes.

It’s not enough for Barkley, however, because he seem to be under the impression that Sherlock can just glean some dark motive out of thin air. Sherlock does not dispute that there is something like that behind this; but that’s not the problem here.

“I cannot establish motive when the body has been completely washed and fully autopsied before you allow me to see it again!” A gruff echo of his deep baritone bounces off the walls and he tugs at his hair in frustration. Those few minutes spent with the body lying on the tarmac, a body completely covered by a large, ill-fitting flight suit were not enough time for him to collect all of the data he generally needs to establish what she was doing there.

“Who she was is obvious. Perhaps she was some normal person just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Sherlock exclaims.

Barkley is standing toe-to-toe with Sherlock now, each man trying to out-intimidate the other. Sherlock is having none of it.

“For however long it took for whoever did this to break all the bones in her legs and then have time for them to start to heal?” Barkley shouts.

Sherlock says nothing but a wicked expression crosses his features, gone as fast as it appears. This is nothing at all like watching Sherlock and Mycroft, in John’s mind there’s a line being crossed somehow. Granted, they came to ask him for help, albeit without much grace, but still.

“Mr. Holmes,” Barkley says from between clenched teeth, “there has to be more. We were told you are some kind of detecting wizard…”

“Sergeant,” Sherlock’s voice has gone from cool to ten degrees below frigid, he’s as close to exploding as John has seen in a long time. “How in the world can I read evidence that has been completely contaminated, obliterated and vanished?” He snaps his mouth shut and commences chomping on his tongue.

So far, John has been impressed that Sherlock is controlling his temper. A quick thought of maybe getting out of here crosses his mind, but it’s already three seconds too late.

“My God! It’s no wonder you Americans have to go around looking for crimes where there are none! You asked for help reading clues! How can I read clues when you haven’t left me any?” Sherlock has worked up to full out tirade mode now. He paces from one end of the box-like morgue to the other.

“Idiots! You are all just like Anderson—could not even tell she was a woman until you had her starkers! If that alone doesn’t explain things to me, then I cannot imagine what else would do…”

Sherlock clams up fast and just stands there, his jaw working, eyes boring holes into Barkley’s red face. There’s a large V-shaped vein sticking out on the officer’s forehead and his hands are curled into fists at his sides. John thinks it’s a mark of professionalism that his hand isn’t clutching his sidearm, though it is odd that the officer seems to have forgotten about it.

John unconsciously scans the room for possible witnesses and wonders vaguely where the coroner could be. Sergeant Penn has remained outside the morgue even when Barkley and Sherlock got louder, seemingly quite unconcerned by the whole ordeal. Perhaps this is their normal way of handling things?

Sherlock’s tongue is getting sore and all the muscles in his neck are tense. He decides he’s never taking another holiday until he is prepared to move out to the countryside and raise bees if this is how they are going to be.

John walks around the steel table and lays the palm of his hand against Sherlock’s forearm. He really doesn’t want Sherlock going nuclear here if he can avoid it. Finally, Barkley backs off a little and the tension between them thins. John takes a deep breath, loudly, and that seems to work on Sherlock, who copies him.

“Look,” John says in his best captain voice. “My partner cannot help you. No one in the world reads a crime scene the way he can, I can confirm that.” He lets his tone soften around the edges. “However, he cannot: A. work a crime scene that no longer exists, and B. read evidence that has been washed away.”

Barkley nods his head and wisely keeps silent. John thinks this is probably for the best. The heat pouring off the two combatants is threatening to make John sweat. To think that he was a bit chilled when they first came down here is now a joke. What did they expect? He watches as Penn comes into the room and backs Sherlock away from the two officers who proceed to have an almost subsonic conversation. Barkley leaves by punching the swinging door open, still fuming.

Penn turns first to Sherlock then John. “If you will, sirs, I think this concludes our meeting for today.”

“Forever,” Sherlock growls. “I am unsure what your desired outcome is here, I cannot help you.”

“Yes sir. If you would please follow me, I will see to it that you are returned to your lodgings so that you may enjoy the rest of your vacation.” Penn is professional and distant: a very different man from his hot-headed partner.

Penn steps back to allow Sherlock and John into the elevator. Sherlock gives him the once over before the doors close with a ding.

“I am amazed that they feel a proper way to study a crime scene is to clean it up,” he says to John. John nods and waits to get out.

As they climb into the back of yet another SUV, Sherlock has one more thing to say. “How do any crimes ever get solved here?”

John moves his leg so that their thighs rest against one another and once again plays mute. When Sherlock is this frustrated, it’s better to stay out of the line of fire when he can avoid it.

***

John’s quiet solidarity seems to do what his words will not. When they get back to their room it is to find out that they are alone. Sherlock follows John to the bedroom, shedding his clothing as he walks.

“Sherlock, don’t leave those on the floor,” John admonishes.

“John, I do believe that my brothers and Mrs. Hudson are well aware of our particular set of activities when we are alone.” Sherlock grins roguishly and drops his shirt as if daring John to say anything.

As always, John’s torn between shoving Sherlock down on the bed and making him clean up his own mess. Sherlock knows it so he very slowly flicks open the zip on his trousers. When John sees dark curls he shuts the door behind them, locks it and goes right on ahead and pushes Sherlock to the mattress.

“You’re going to kill me,” John says against Sherlock’s mouth before crushing their lips together. “You were as brilliant today as always, too bad this Barkley bloke is such a dick,” he kisses Sherlock again, this time using his tongue to sample his partner’s lips from the inside.

Beneath him, Sherlock bucks upwards a little and hisses between his lips when the metal teeth of the zipper of his trousers glances off his now completely hard cock.

“Don’t wanna talk ‘bout idiots,” Sherlock mutters as he raises up enough to allow John to get his trousers off, since he’s already wriggled out of his clothes.

“Want you,” John tells him then slides down and takes Sherlock in his mouth. Sherlock pushes and prods John so that he ends up lying on his side, his mouth on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s hand on John’s. It’s not uncomfortable this way, though John would prefer to take more time touching and caressing his partner, it is enough for now.

Sherlock strokes John along with John’s bobbing head and it takes almost no time at all before Sherlock huffs and climaxes so hard that John chokes. John pulls off to rest his face on Sherlock’s thigh as Sherlock continues to stroke him slowly. Sherlock groans when he feels John swallow against his leg.

When John is about ready to tell Sherlock to let him take over, Sherlock pushes himself up and over John so that he can get a better grip. He leans down to lick the tip of John’s cock, suckling on it just enough so that John’s orgasm rolls over him like a wave; he grunts and grabs at Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring them both in place in order to recover.

After a few minutes, Sherlock sits up and rolls his head. “John, my neck hurts.”

“Come here,” John orders and they flip around so that he can massage Sherlock’s tight muscles, glad to be able to take away some of the tension from the day. When the detective sighs and drops his head, he suggests they take a shower before they head out to the show grounds to find everyone else. He’s got more than one motive, naturally: besides the closeness they can share for a while, the hot water should also help Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

***

Martin enters the dining room of the hotel quietly. The thin soles of the leather trainers he wears for his performances make no sound against the tile or the carpeting. Very few people notice him unless he’s fully dressed in his tight show clothes anyway, and he’s found that he really prefers it that way. He runs nervous fingers through his hair and thinks that this has got to be one of the stupidest things he’s ever done. Of course Mycroft is around someplace, so he figures as far as safe goes, he’s good — except no one has mentioned anymore details about the crash to him. Martin shakes off those thoughts; he’s just about ready to turn around and go hide in the room when Douglas spots him.

The older man waves him over to one of the last tables in the back. Douglas stands up and offers his hand to Martin, they shake and sit down at the same time. Light streams through the windows lining the wall behind the older man; it is muted slightly by the sheer white shades open half-way across them. Even so it catches on a few of the silver strands mixing with the brown ones at his temples.

“Hi.” Martin says feeling the same odd sense shyness from before creeping up on him unbidden.

“Good afternoon, Martin,” Douglas grins broadly.

Martin is astounded how he pleased the first officer is to see him. He takes a covert look around the room. No one else is paying them any mind. Yep. Must be him. He sits down, waiting politely for Douglas to do the same.

“Thanks for the invitation, I…I’ve really never had anyone do that before.” Martin fiddles with his silverware.

“Do what? Ask you out?” Douglas looks incredulous at the very idea.

Martin doesn’t meet his eyes when he shakes his head. “Especially when they’ve already seen one of my brothers.” A weak laugh escapes him.

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret then, Martin,” Douglas says firmly as he catches Martin’s eye.

Martin smiles at him. “Alright.”

“I was watching your performance before everything went belly up, and when you were standing out there with your eyes closed and your arms out, all I could think was ‘that’s someone I’d really like to get to know,’ and I can tell you it’s never quite happened for me like that before, either.” Douglas’ voice softens a bit at the end.

“And you’re from Fitton,” Martin adds, impressed. “Why is it we’ve never met before?”

Douglas shrugs. “I’ve no idea, perhaps the stars weren’t aligned in the proper configuration?”

At this, Martin really laughs. The waitress drops by their table and they both order roast beef and cheese sandwiches with French fries and cokes. Martin considers how he’s never been really good at making conversation, but Douglas seems to sense his struggle and opens up the discussion.

“So, it appears you’re related to one of the most almost-famous men in England.”

Martin checks Douglas’ tone for anything that could be considered poking fun at him; the only thing he gets is honest curiosity, so he shrugs, “Have been all my life.”

“That’s funny, Martin, but I don’t think I’d open a stand-up act with that one.” Douglas quips.

Martin has never felt such a strong urge to take someone’s face in his hands and kiss them until they are breathless. Too soon, you barely know him, he mentally chastises himself.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “I am. Haven’t seen him in close to twenty years, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Douglas offers, taken a little off guard.

Martin shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s really a long story but after Father passed on, Mum took me and Sherlock was left with Mycroft. The older lady that was at the table with us this afternoon?” Douglas nods, so Martin continues. “That’s Mrs. Hudson, apparently Mycroft hired her at some point to be a sort of nanny stand-in while he was away working.” He takes a sip from his water glass and studies Douglas who is hanging on his every word.

Martin has never really talked about this much to anyone, even those who were part of it, so it’s sort of cleansing to speak of it now, especially to someone who seems genuinely interested.

“Yeah, Sherlock had some troubles in his early twenties, that’s his story to tell, but met up with Mrs. Hudson again and solved a problem for her; he rents a flat in a building she owns on Baker Street, right in London, and somewhere in there, that’s where he and John met up.”

“Wow, that’s quite the story.” Douglas says.

Martin scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess it is, though I’ve gotten most of it from the papers and John’s blog.”

“Do you have a lot of downtime, then?”

Martin considers how to answer that without sounding like he’s a layabout when he’s not flying. “Yes and no.”

The waitress sets their drinks down in front of them. “Lunch’ll be out in a sec.”

Douglas takes a drink of his Coke, tilts his head to show he’s listening as he nods gratefully at the woman.

“There are lots of preparations to be done in this business.” Martin continues when she moves on. “I do fly both of the bi-wings, even though there’s only me and one other performer, and that’s Angie. The company very rarely sends us all to a show together, that way they get more performances out of two planes. The pay isn’t the greatest, but there’s no feeling like standing up there with the wind in your face.”

Douglas thinks the flush on Martin’s face is beautiful. “You love it.”

“I do, yeah.”

They are silent for a few moments. “Are there more of you? Siblings I mean? Seems interesting to have such a big family you never get to see.”

Martin stifles a loud laugh that threatens to spill from his lips. “In some ways it’s a godsend, because once Mycroft decides you are under his wing, he sometimes can be sort of stalkerish…but in a good way.” He flaps a hand in the air dismissively and laughs at the absurdity of it. Douglas laughs with him. “I guess we are the quintessential British men, though, John had to remind Sherlock to hug me.”

“Oh god,” Douglas nods.

“Yeah, it’s fine, though. It’s not like we are all estranged because we dislike one another, we’re just very different people with very different lives. I have two older step-siblings, as well, from Mum’s second marriage. The same can pretty much be said for them.”

“I get it. I’ve got younger siblings myself, but my brother lives in Australia and I think my youngest sister is in a jungle somewhere, studying tree moss or bacteria or some such thing.” Douglas states. “I’m curious, though, either of the others fly?”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “No, not really. Mycroft is some sort of diplomat, he’s married to a DI of Scotland Yard, which I just found out, by the way.”

Douglas nods again. “That must be interesting.”

“And Sherlock is, well, himself. He and John have a daughter named Sophie.”

“Oh, the little girl with the curls?”

“Yep, first time I’ve ever met her, as well. Maybe if we meet up again, I’ll tell you that story.”

“Of course.” Douglas says confidently, as if there were any doubt.

Martin knows he’s blushing again. “Really?”

“Are you kidding?” Douglas asks.

Martin thinks he must be grinning like a loon. “That would be great!” He gives himself a second to think about that. “Of course, then, there’s always my other…”

They are interrupted, however, when the waitress returns with their platters. Douglas likes the way Martin dives into his as if he hasn’t eaten for a week. Just as their conversation begins to pick up where it left off, another interruption in the form of a particularly bubbly steward from MJN appears, complete with this week’s girlfriend in tow.

“Hey Douglas,” Arthur calls out, waving his hand in the air. He approaches them, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The girl with him gives them a simpering smile and excuses herself for the moment. Arthur gives her a quick peck on the lips before she goes. His smile is almost as blazing as the one Douglas greeted Martin with.

Douglas gestures towards Arthur but speaks to Martin. “Martin, meet Arthur, Arthur meet Martin.”

“Isn’t she great?” he asks Douglas as he watches the blonde girl walk away; Douglas answers with some sort of non-committal grunt that Arthur must take as affirmative.

“So you must be the wingwalker Douglas went to rescue.” Arthur states, holding out his hand in Martin’s direction and changing the subject completely.

Martin shakes it, amazed at the soft strength of Arthur’s big hand. “I guess I am,” he tells him.

Arthur smiles again then and the whole room around them is that much brighter for it. He grabs a chair from the table behind them and pulls it over to the edge of the one they are at, effectively blocking the aisle. His legs are so long that he practically has to fold them double in order to get them under the table.

“Douglas,” Arthur says, switching subjects a second time, “Herc told Mom this morning that he’s going to start looking for something…I can’t remember how he put it, but I think he meant something to make more money.”

“He can’t leave, Carolyn refuses to let me pilot.” Douglas states, forgetting for a moment Martin is there.

“Why?” Martin asks.

Douglas clears his throat. Martin seems understanding, but…well, better get this out of the way before things go any farther between them.

“Well, you know how you said your brother had some troubles when he was younger?” Douglas refuses to go the coward’s way and beat around the bush.

“Yes,” Martin answers.

“Well, mine happened to be with a bottle. Not just one, though, I never could remember when to stop.”

“Ah, I understand. Not now, though?” Martin asks, as point-blank as Douglas.

“No. I’m sober.”

“I’m proud of you.” Martin tries to bite back the ridiculous statement, but it’s too late.

Douglas cocks his head again and frowns a little. “Thanks?”

Martin smiles. “It’s hard to overcome that, Douglas, and you’ve obviously done it. So, proud, yeah.”

Douglas reaches over and grasps Martin’s solid forearm, not hard, but enough to let the other man know he appreciates what he’s trying to say. He gets the impression that sometimes Martin has a hard time getting out what he means.

The waitress awkwardly presents their plates around Arthur but politely says nothing. They thank her and Arthur declines anything.

When they turn back to Arthur, he looks like he’s going to burst. “Anyway, Mum says that since we are stuck here until you’re allowed to leave, because of the crash you helped with, you know…she says we ought to be looking for someone to take Herc’s place…so, Martin, what about you?” he turns his full attention on Martin then.

“I’m not sure if I could be a full-time pilot, but I appreciate the offer,” Martin states as the question derails his thoughts for a moment. It was always his dream to fly, and if he loses his position with Triple W, he may be in serious need.

“Why not, you already know how to crash!” Arthur jokes. His girlfriend must be coming out of the loo because he disappears as fast as he appeared.

Martin just stares at Douglas, hoping he didn’t just close that particular gate forever.

“No, Martin that is not why I asked you to lunch. To be honest, I hadn’t even been aware that our lustrous pilot, Berk-u-lees, is planning on leaving us until this very moment.”

Martin decides Douglas is telling the truth so he swirls a fry on his plate into some ketchup that he’s just put onto it. He bites the now-gooey end off of it and catches Douglas’ eyes. The older man is staring at him, which in turn makes Martin even more nervous and he drops the stupid thing in his lap.

Douglas’ eyes follow the fry. “Martin, you are killing me,” his voice is low and soft as he leans forward.

Martin takes his turn staring, too. A hunger the likes he's not felt in _ages_ rumbles in his groin. Even so, he doesn't want to move too fast. “Douglas, that’s a little fast for me. Can I see you again?”

“Absolutely.” Douglas agrees, “Name the time and place.”


	6. New Memories

**Chapter Six: New Memories**

**Late Tuesday afternoon**

It turns out to be a fine afternoon to watch more of the air show. The sky above is clear blue and the day is not as humid as the last two have been. The adults sit at the shaded table while Sophie alternately lap hops and dances around them making airplane noises. She’s somehow acquired a little red bi-plane to go along with her Stealth and she’s actively engaged in staging a strange type of dogfight that involves blowing raspberries and giggling to herself.

“I couldn’t resist,” Martin informs John when John spies the new toy.

“I know,” he says, grinning adoringly at Sophie who is now standing in between his feet, her airplane-filled fists resting on his thigh, her head up and thrown back in order to watch what is happening above them.

Sherlock has more or less tuned out everyone as his eyes scan the sky. John knows full well he’s still irritated at the way Sergeant Barkley dismissed him and what he had to say about the dead woman. He studies his partner for a few minutes, sometimes wishing he could see into that brain, study the cogs and wheels that he knows are running at full tilt—even as the detective is hyper aware of everyone and everything around him.

John and Greg talk about the various aircraft on display, reminding Sherlock strongly of the many times the two of them watched football on the telly or at the pub. This time, though, they aren’t arguing about which players have made mistakes, instead they are watching the planes with twin looks of awe of their faces. Sherlock pays attention for a little while then retreats into his own head to think about the sort-of case that they have going on, then switches his attention to Sophie now happily pounding John’s thigh with her airplane toys.

She plops down onto the grass, dropping her planes in order to rest her hands on John’s trainers. Mrs. Hudson reaches over and hands her a bright blue bottle of some sort of sports drink.

“Thank you,” she says.

Mrs. Hudson smiles, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock and winking, “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock feels the tug of what must be pride swell in his chest and grins back at her, pleased at the unsaid compliment. And to think, that after all this time, he thought only John could make him feel that way.

He looks up in time to see a helicopter team, thinking that it is fascinating to see someone fly one of those things upside down. He sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye at Mycroft who is gazing ahead as if trying to pretend that he’s interested in the show.

Sherlock observes him carefully, thinking of all the ways Mycroft has adjusted his life to accommodate Greg. Of course, before that Mycroft was always making changes for Sherlock, and now there’s John and Sophie and maybe Martin will remain in their lives this time…Sherlock’s thoughts ebb and flow as a slight breeze picks up around them.

He nods to himself, comparing his and John’s lives with Sophie in the mix; the end result is a fair balance, he decides. Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the white plastic cup of some cold beverage in his older brother’s hand. He considers it a welcome distraction as he calculates how long it’s going to take the bead of cold water on the rim to slide down to the bottom of the cup when Mycroft sets it on the table. He stretches his arm across the table in order to catch the water on his fingertip.

Just as he gets close, Mycroft narrows his eyes and snatches it back, giving Sherlock a triumphant look that’s not much more than a slight tightening of his lips.

The successive movement of fingers and cup pulls Martin’s attention from the sky and to his brothers; he snorts in amusement at the same time Sherlock huffs like a diva that’s been told ‘no.’ Mrs. Hudson tries to stifle a giggle behind her hand.

Sophie crawls up and over John’s leg to Sherlock and pats his legs to get his attention. The conversation between John and Greg dies as John realizes just how still Sherlock has been and for how long. Without a doubt, he’s getting bored.

“Greg, besides the static displays, are there any other buildings where we could take a peek for a bit?” He tilts his head in Sherlock’s direction.

Greg understands. “Yes,” he answers. “I think there may be some indoor displays over there.” He points across to the other side of the flight line where several buildings stand near the squat little medical clinic Martin was taken to yesterday. “It’s a trek, though, since you can’t cross the line until the show’s over.”

“Great idea.” John agrees.

“No problem, Mycroft and I were planning on spending some time with Sophie today, anyhow. Martin, want to tag along?”

“Sure,” he answers distractedly, keeping his eyes on the jet that has just streaked overhead.

John turns back to Sherlock just in time to see him make a grab for Mycroft’s cup. He smirks at John and sucks on the straw the sputters. The shock of the lemon wedge and the sugar and the taste of tea that isn’t hot almost makes him choke.

Mycroft’s expression is prissy. “It’s _iced_ tea, Sherlock.”

John thinks that Mycroft has probably been exposed to a wide variety of foodstuffs over the years he’s worked ‘for’ the government; probably nothing much fazes him. He makes a mental note to ask him if he’s ever eaten anything real far out, like monkey brains.

Sherlock looks down at the cup, completely offended, while Martin almost falls out of his chair laughing so hard.

“It’s awful,” Sherlock complains prissily.

“It’s also mine, Sherlock.” Mycroft pops the hard ‘k’ at the end of his brother’s name. “If you need a drink, get your own.” He grins wickedly and sucks a bunch of the brown liquid up the straw, making sure to make as many rude noises as possible. Mrs. Hudson frowns at him.

Which sends Sophie into copycat mode. Martin is sure he is going to lose his mind, now laughing behind his hands but trying to stop because it is making his head throb all over again. He rests his forehead on his arms and when he looks up again, his eyes are streaming.

“Oh god,” he wipes at his eyes. Mycroft and Sherlock are staring at him as if he’s grown another head.

John, Greg and Sophie are enjoying the little joke. Sophie pushes at Sherlock’s stomach and he moves his chair back so she can climb up on him, still frowning at the others.

“Papa, let’s swim,” she asks as she pats the side of his face.

Sherlock nods his agreement and lets her back to the ground. He holds out his hand to her and takes her little one in his big one. When he smiles softly at John, John wonders if the little fluttering sensation in his chest is ever going to stop.

He hopes it never does. “Sorry to change your plans,” he says to Greg.

“No problem, we’ll catch up later.”

The three of them wave at the others and head back across the grounds towards the hotel.

***

Twenty minutes later, John stands in front of the opaque glass doors that lead to an Olympic-sized inground pool. He grasps the handle but discovers that he can’t twist it and it isn’t due to any problem with the door itself. Another scene at another pool that must have happened in someone else’s lifetime jumps to the front of his mind. John stays there for a moment, his sweaty fingers against the cold metal, trying to control his breathing. He hasn’t had a panic attack in so long that he’d hoped maybe they no longer would happen to him.

Surprisingly, that had been the last time he was near a large body of water that wasn’t the Thames or the Atlantic. He’s never been much of a swimmer, but he is confident when he’s in the water; ‘course he wasn’t much of an equestrian, either, until he’d moved up to what he calls in his mind as the Holmes-Watson manor.

If nothing else, he knows he’s good at adapting to changing situations. He squares his shoulders and does his best to shrug the past off. He is on holiday, and Moriarty is dead, …no reason he shouldn’t enjoy some time in the pool with his partner and their daughter. He takes another breath and repeats it: Moriarty is dead.

John finally pulls open the door and inhales the tang of chlorine. He laughs silently at himself. No mad Irish genius consulting criminals here: just one four-year-old girl in a red swimsuit and arm floaties, plus one mad British consulting detective in a pair of black trunks. John sighs and realizes that he’s just being silly.

John pads towards the huge pool, his feet making a hollow echo against the shiny tiles. Sophie stops her splashing in the shallow end to wave at him. Sherlock is standing up from the water opposite her, his fringe plastered to his forehead from where he’s just popped his head back up. Water streams down his face onto which is currently plastered his ‘deduction mask.’ John shakes his head, cutting his eyes towards Sophie. He really doesn’t want to have to tell Sherlock that he doesn’t want to talk about this.

Dropping his towel on the tile beside the pool, he shrugs silently, please just let it go this time. Sherlock’s expression softens and he gracefully jumps upward then dives down towards the bottom of the pool. Naturally, John can’t help but stare as his posh behind wrapped in tight swimwear like a gift to be unwrapped...

Sophie laughs, the bright sound of it reminding him where they are. “Daddy!” she calls out, patting her little hands on the surface of the water where it’s rippling from Sherlock’s dive. She clings to his arm as the long, lean figure of his partner cuts through the water like a shark, bobbing up right in front of Sophie. For dramatic effect, Sherlock blasts water towards the ceiling as he breaks the surface.

John smiles at him and waits until he mops off his face before doing his own dive by kicking off the bottom. It feels wonderful after the last couple of hot days. He swims towards the far end, drops to the bottom and pushes off with both hands, headed back in Sophie’s direction. He bobs at the surface for a second before moving into an easy breast stroke; in only a few kicks, he’s beside his little family.

“Sophie, want to swim with me?”

Sophie grins at her daddy and shrieks, “yes!”

John carefully adjusts her until she is holding on to his neck and lying with her belly against his back. The puffy arm bands she’s wearing will help keep her buoyant, but he still plans on being very careful. He slowly stretches out and kicks a little. She giggles.

“It’s like riding Pascale, Papa!” she shouts at Sherlock.

John can’t hear much with his head half-submerged, but the unmistakable rumble must be Sherlock’s answer; he’s right beside them, on the off chance Sophie might wobble.

John half dog-paddles, half frog-kicks his way to the red and white rope that intersects the pool. Sophie daintily stretches out and grabs it like a Victorian child reaching for the gold ring of a carousel. Sherlock holds out his hand for her; instead of letting go, she grins at both of them.

Without any warning, she puffs out her cheeks and drops face-first into the water. John jumps and grabs for her, but Sherlock stops him with a broad hand splayed over his chest. Before John can go into full-out panic mode for the second time that day, Sophie whips back up out of the water. She turns a proud expression up to her Papa, but when she sees John’s tense face, her smile falters and she gently grabs his arm.

“It’s okay, daddy, Papa is teaching me! I want to swim, too.”

John grabs her and holds her close to him. “I know, darling, you just gave me a bit of a fright, that’s all. I didn’t know you could do that yet.” He tries to smile reassuringly. After that, they play in the water until dinnertime, Sherlock never leaving John’s side.

***

During dinner, Sherlock announces to John that he plans on going back out onto the grounds tonight. John simply nods and picks some more fried shrimp off his plate, paying more attention to stopping Sophie from accidentally flinging a spoonful of applesauce on the patrons at the table beside them. Sherlock grunts in a way that usually means he knows John got the message.

After dinner, the four of them go back to their room in order to allow Sophie some downtime with her dads before she goes to bed. John and Mrs. Hudson are playing cribbage at the coffee table, John in the floor and Mrs. Hudson on the sofa while Sherlock and Sophie are opposite them with a huge book about aircraft open between them.

Sophie is staring intently at the glossy pages that are thoroughly splashed with photos and drawings of a variety of planes and helicopters. Sherlock reads off the labels for Boeing jetliners, little prop jobs, military bombers and fighters, and of course a few of the more well-known experimental planes. When they get to the double-page spread of what looks to be a giant black wing, Sophie is practically laying on the book.

“Oohhh,” she coos, clearly impressed with the Stealth.

John is so busy watching his daughter that he forgets his turn to peg. Mrs. Hudson completely skunks him in the meantime. John looks at the board, raises up his hands and admits defeat while Mrs. Hudson does a silly victory wiggle in her chair.

***

An hour later, they stand outside a rather imposing brick building that is tucked in behind two huge hangars. Naturally, it piqued Sherlock’s never ending curiosity that afternoon when Greg had pointed out across the flight line. John thinks back to dinner and wonders vaguely what he’s agreed to. He grudgingly admits that he should have been taught by former experience to pay closer attention to his partner’s plans, especially when they involved skulking about after dark in places that they most certainly should not be.

Sherlock must be interested in the case after all. John sighs and continues to watch out for any movement other than what is going on behind his back. With a metallic tink and a click, Sherlock’s got the very serious-looking lock picked. John notes Sherlock dropping the little tool back into the deep pocket of his tight jeans and thinks maybe this time he doesn’t really want to know how the detective got that past airport security.

“It was in my mouth, John,” Sherlock whispers as he pushes the door open slowly so that it doesn’t creak in any way.

“Ugh,” is really all John can say to that.

They step forward into what appears to be an empty hallway. Both of them stand stock still and listen for any sound that would alert them to not being alone. John moves behind Sherlock and gently closes the door. Together they move forward, Sherlock’s black military-type boots thumping softly on the floor, John’s making no sound at all.

As always, John doesn’t bother even asking what they’re doing there, instead trusting that his personal mad genius has some plan relating to the meeting from this morning.

They follow a rather long hallway until it opens up into a cavernous room. There are lights hanging from the metal rafters; hoses and electric wires go in every direction like some weird techno spider web. In the center of the chaos is a giant aircraft, similar to one of the experimental planes in Sophie’s book. Its glossy black paint reflects the lights above it.

John can hear someone moving about on the other side of the plane and he notices that the smell of welding material is thick in the air. Sherlock is heading in that direction, but he’s too far from John to stop him without making any noise and calling attention to them. Following the detective’s footsteps, John can’t stop the impulse to reach out and gently run his hand along the smooth metal; the machine is warm to the touch.

John starts to whisper this observation to Sherlock, except that a rather tall, broad-shouldered, helmeted figure has just risen up from underneath the aircraft like some weird science-fiction monster coming out of its spaceship. It is holding a large round light and what could only be a welding rod in its leather gloved hands. Without releasing the rod, the hand reaches up and pushes back the dark face mask on the welding helmet to reveal a pair of striking crystalline blue eyes.

What expression John can see in the heavy shadows appears to be anything but alarmed, even entertained. John realizes he’s still touching the plane and pulls back as if he’s just been caught filching his dad’s tools or with his hand down his own trousers.

An almost-familiar voice drawls from behind the mask in a half-bored, half-amused manner, “I’d ask what you’re doin’ here, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

The man regards them and John truly believes that they’ve finally barked up the wrong tree. Neither he nor Sherlock speaks; John can’t take his eyes off the big man.

“So, I’m gonna give you ten seconds to stop me from calling the local, uh, authorities," the deep voice booms out with a chuckle. 

He scratches at the side of his helmet in a gesture so incredibly recognizable that John’s knees threaten to give out. He shakes it off and now John is pretty sure that the man is smirking, his well-shaped lips quirked in such a familiar fashion. Forcefully, John is reminded of Sherlock when the detective is showing off in front of the entire ‘Yard.

Sherlock sighs wearily and when he speaks, his voice echoes in the garage-like room. “I think that would be unwise,” he says to the stranger, then turns his back on the man and addresses John.

“John, I’d like you to meet my eldest brother, Sherrinford.”


	7. Keeping the Balance

**Chapter Seven: Keeping the Balance**

**Tuesday night**

Martin sits at the table on the roof, staring into the starlit sky. There’s a faint breeze blowing, gently lifting the curls at the back of his neck, a smile plastered across his face as Douglas walks towards him carrying their drinks: a glass of wine for Martin and a Shirley Temple for himself. Douglas is wearing a pair of white trousers, black uniform shoes, a crisply-ironed light blue button down and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

Martin grins up at the older man self-consciously as Douglas places the wine in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome, Martin,” Douglas rumbles. He scoots his chair around the table so that they are now sitting side-by-side looking out over the roof and the airfield. There is only a little bit of movement on the field below them, people walking back and forth, some of them talking. Martin sips his wine.

“Tell me, Douglas, what kind of company MJN is to work for?” Martin keeps his eyes on the sky, slightly embarrassed at himself for asking.

“In a word, I’d say it is ‘close-knit.” Douglas tells him as he rests his arm on the back of Martin’s chair.

“That’s two words, Douglas.” Martin laughs.

Douglas turns towards Martin and raises his eyebrow. “Indeed, Mr. Crieff, indeed.”

When Martin’s gaze slides back to Douglas’, he is struck by the tiny pinpricks of light in Douglas’ warm brown eyes.

Douglas is taken aback at the complete look of wonder on Martin’s face. For his part, he likes green eyes, but the way Martin’s auburn curls are backlit right now, the younger man looks quite angelic. After a few moments of allowing their eyes to remain locked, Douglas clears his throat.

“Martin,” he begins.

Martin takes another sip of his wine then sets the glass on the table with only the slightest clunk. His hands are trembling.

“Douglas,” Martin says as he twists sideways in his chair.

Douglas moves his arm so that his hand rests on Martin’s shoulder.

“Douglas, would you mind if I...I…” Martin stammers as their noses touch.

“Yes.” Douglas says quietly, moving his hand from Martin’s shoulder to the nape of his neck.

Martin kisses him softly, tentatively, questioningly. He pulls back but doesn’t move very far away. Douglas leaves his hand where it is, letting his index finger caress those ginger ringlets. As much as he wants to kiss Martin again, he thinks to himself that it may be best if they take it slowly. When the second kiss comes, Martin smiles into it, growing bolder with every passing second, one hand now on Douglas’ chest.

When they break this time, Martin sits back in his chair. Douglas covers Martin’s hand with his own and they pass the next two hours sharing stories of their lives up to this point.

***

John stands in the cavernous warehouse slash hangar, surrounded by a mishmash of wires and airplane parts and realizes that he is completely mesmerized; so much so, in fact, that it never occurs to him to be upset over yet another big surprise development. His head swivels so that he takes in Sherlock, Sherrinford, and the aircraft between them that looks like something out of a Sci-Fi film. Sherrinford moves to the back of the room and flips on the house lights so that now John can clearly see the stenciled logo on the craft, white lettering against the shiny black metal skin--Holmes Manufacturing, topped with a little icon of what could be a box with horns or a house with two chimneys, depending on how one looks at it.

Where John is standing, the cockpit of the plane is a solid foot above his head. Vaguely, he wonders how many mad geniuses have actually sprouted from the branches of the Holmes family tree. Visions of all the things Sophie is going to be able to accomplish flash through his mind and he looks around for a chair, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the prospects.

Sherlock and Sherrinford are speaking to one another in low tones, effectively giving John the space he needs to work through the craziness. It has taken years, but Sherlock finally learned to shut up when John gets that special glazed look in his eyes. Apparently, Sherrinford understands that without being told.

For his part, John studies the two men as if they are another static exhibit. Sherlock is explaining with gestures and quiet statements why they were prowling through the place and Sherrinford is leaning against the aircraft, listening intently. He has put the welding rod down and turned off the machine, so their almost-matching deep voices echo off the cinderblock walls. He’s also taken off his welding helmet and holds it in his hand, casually bouncing it against his thigh as he converses.

Sherrinford has a good three inches on Sherlock’s height, and he’s even slumped down a little against the plane. To John, he looks like an older version of Mycroft with hair a few shades darker red, flecked with white streaks. He’s also got a lot more of it and it lays against his skull in soft waves, nothing like Martin’s or Sherlock’s curls. On his face is a white-and-red goatee, trimmed neatly. When he looks up, John sees that his eyes are a pale, frosty blue. Sherrinford waves at John with his left hand, and John clearly sees diamonds on the gold band around his third finger when they catch the bright working lights.

Sherlock is at his side so quickly and quietly that John’s brain provides the swish of a long wool coat, even though the detective isn’t wearing it.

“Dr. Watson,” Sherrinford steps closer and holds out his hand for John to shake. John wonders if this is what Sherlock’s voice is going to sound like as he matures: like someone dumped melted chocolate over black velvet. There’s an odd, lilting quality to it, like Sherrinford is pleased to be surrounded by the world in general.

Sherlock rests his hand on John’s forearm as John lets go Sherrinford’s. The man has a powerful grip and seems to be fully aware of his own strength. John has never felt on such equal footing with a Holmes before.

Sherrinford’s gaze travels from Sherlock’s hand to John’s face and back. In the same space of time, a knowing expression settles on his handsome face and he grins crookedly at them, eyes lighting up with pride.

“Oh god, another one,” John mutters. Sherlock chuckles and Sherrinford tilts his head to the side. John feels the all-too-familiar cut-open-and-pinned-to-a-board feeling. He shakes his head.

“Ah, John, there’s no shame in being such an open book, you know.” Sherrinford smiles as he sees John’s eyes follow his hand again. He holds it out straight so that the three diamonds on his wedding band sparkle in the bright lights.

“Been married for a while, now. My wife, Atlantea, and I have three children, the boys: Tobias and Alfred, and our twelve-year old daughter, Persephone.”

Sherlock seems unsurprised by all of this information, even to the point of having the audacity to look bored.

John shakes his head as if trying to put the new information in some sort of order. “Why have we never met?” he finally gets out, ignoring the obvious question about the Holmes family and names.

Sherrinford shrugs. “Dunno, bet you didn’t know that I’ve worn off the treads of my boots in a lot of the same sand you’ve seen.”

“Really?”

Sherrinford nods. Sherlock suddenly becomes incredibly interested in the ceiling.

John gestures at the magnificent aircraft. “So what do you do, then?”

Sherrinford waves his hand in the air between them, “A little of this, a lot more of that.” He points towards the aircraft, his answer easily as cryptic as Mycroft’s usually are.

Sherlock snorts and John catches him in mid eye-roll. He smirks at his partner, caught out. “Enough catching up,” he announces.

Sherrinford shrugs and puts his helmet back on. He makes to pull down the face plate then seems to have second thoughts about it. “We’ll do lunch tomorrow. I’m not due out of here for the next forty-eight or so.”

“I’m sure Mycroft will be delighted to see you again, Mon frère.” Sherlock intones. John wonders why Martin hasn’t been mentioned, but chooses to let it slide. Sherlock must have his reasons.

“Naturally. No one can resist me for too long.” Snap goes the face plate.

Sherlock snorts and John bites back a giggle. Oh boy, this is going to be good.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock’s hand is between John’s shoulders, not quite pushing, but leaving no room for argument, either.

“It was nice to meet you…” John calls.

“Don’t you dare call me _Mister_ Holmes, John, that was my father.”

John doesn’t answer over the loud whoosh of sound of the welding machine starting back up. As they exit the building, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missed something.

“So…what exactly did you learn just now that my brain failed to register?” John queries as they walk, hands brushes until Sherlock grabs John’s pinkie with his own.

Even before Sherlock…left...John had adjusted to many forms of non-verbal communication from the detective, though the majority of it took place between Sherlock and Mycroft. He’s almost one hundred percent certain that another one just took place, even with the words that were actually said in there.

Calm as ever, Sherlock answers, “He knows nothing about the case other than the general gossip around this place. He’s been busy working on the aircraft you were just groping to be paying more than scant attention to much else.”

John doesn’t say _reminds me of someone else_ , though it is right on the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock reads everything in John’s expression clearly. “To answer your other question, yes, he really is the eldest of us, and no, I truly had no idea he was here. I had a small thought that maybe he was when Mycroft warned us not to poke around, but I had no idea.”

John thinks it probably physically hurt Sherlock to admit that, but one look at his face tells him he’s wrong.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Something inside John is only partially sure he wants the answer.

“While I was…away. Sherrinford was the first to tell me his suspicions about Molly’s condition; he’s part of the reason I returned to London when I did.”

“Part?” John asks, feeling foolish.

Sherlock doesn’t answer that, just steps into John’s space and starts walking him backward towards whatever convenient wall presents itself. He snags the back of John’s head with one hand and tilts John’s face upward in order to kiss him. Sherlock kisses John as if he’s dying, trying in his own way to erase the hurt he caused four years ago.

“I’m so sorry, John,” he whispers against John’s mouth when they come up for air.

“It’s fine,” John says, holding Sherlock’s gaze with his own. They step away from one another and Sherlock looks away. A faint glimmer of light catches twin tear tracks on his face; he goes quiet and seems to be calculating something.

To John, it’s just a muggy night in an airport, he is getting nothing from the shadows of the various buildings spread out around them. His nose feels a bit clogged so he sniffs and tries to ignore it as Sherlock pivots on the ball of his foot and goes still.

In the dark next to Sherlock, for an instant he feels like he’s standing next to a stalking Jaguar, all of its senses on alert.

“There’s another one, John.”

“Where?” Another body, then? Their ‘holiday’ is getting stranger and less holiday-like by the minute.

“Not exactly sure, but I have some idea.”

Yeah, right. Like Sherlock’s ‘ _ideas_ ’ aren’t usually pretty exact. He steps forward and John follows. They move quietly through the grounds towards a large hangar that has a huge yellow star painted above the doors. It is illuminated from either side. A regular-sized entrance is cut into the metal above a foot to the side of the big, airplane-sized half-rounded-top door. Sherlock points towards the human-size one and John nods, wordlessly.

John stops and puts his back to the detective. No doubt he’ll have the lock picked in a matter of seconds.

The lock opens with a snick and Sherlock silently pushes the door open then leaves it that way. They gaze at each other, to in tune to not notice that the air in here feels different, heavier. John fervently wishes for his sidearm, but it’s back home safely tucked into its locked box in its hiding place.

In the mix of heavy shadows, a beam of bright light from outside falls across the floor like an arrow, leading them to a lumpy object they both make to be a body. John crosses to it quickly and drops to his knees. The person is lying on their face, but the too-big and rumpled flight suit is unmistakable. Like the first body, this one is also female, John notes as he turns her smoothly to her back.

Doctor instincts taking over, he feels for a pulse and finds nothing. This unknown woman has had trainers stuck on her feet, the sides mixed up so that the left shoe is hanging on the right foot and vice-versa. Her brown eyes are open, fixed. A shudder runs down John’s spine as Sherlock steps up and kneels beside him.

“Go quietly,” he whispers in a rough growl into John’s ear. John nods in understanding.

Sherlock is studying the woman’s hands when a loud voice booms from the other side of the hangar.

“Freeze! Stand and put your hands in the air!”

John stands carefully, his knees popping with the strain. Sherlock is already standing beside him, hands up. Their eyes lock and hold as the policeman they know as Sergeant Barkley slaps a set of cuffs on both of them.

John wonders if Sherlock is thinking the same thing he is: where is Penn? When his partner turns a cool, calculating expression to him, John understands instantly. The question has certainly been answered, but now is not the time to talk. He follows Sherlock’s lead and remains silent and they are both pushed into the back seat of an unmarked car.


	8. Bailed Out

**Chapter Eight**

**Tuesday night**

John decides that it is possible for one’s rear end to go completely numb thanks to the hard wooden bench he is currently perched on. He’s resting against the cold cement wall with his head tilted back slightly and eyes closed because he doesn’t need to look at Sherlock to be able to tell that the detective has his knees pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them.

After a stretch of terse silence, John dares take a peek: Sherlock’s messy curls are the only part of his head sticking out overtop his knees.

John sighs, uncrosses his arms and thinks it feels like they’ve already been here for days when it’s really only been about an hour. Of course, Sherlock is sulking. John refuses to say _I told you so_ but he wishes his partner would have listened to his advice about how to talk to the American officers yesterday. After all, wasn’t John the one who had been in the army?

Not to mention Mycroft’s diplomatic skills…seem to have bounced off the side of Sherlock’s thick skull.

Naturally, Sherlock had been a stubborn prat during the whole booking process, but at least he had been a silent prat. Somehow, at the end of it, they’d managed to be locked into a holding cell together and luckily with no one else. John wonders if he should make an effort to thank him for keeping his yap shut.

Of course, there’s not much else they can do from here, since both of their mobiles have been confiscated, though apparently not Sherlock’s lock-picking set because the brilliant idiot is now using them to pick at his fingernails.

“Sherlock!” John hisses lowly between his teeth while doing a double-take.

The deep green gaze alights on him and in that instant, John knows there’s more happening here than Sherlock is letting show. When he sees the realization dawn on John’s face, he smirks.

“’s good John, you’ve been paying attention.”

John fights the urge to either slap or kiss the smirk off his face. Instead he pushes back up against the wall and closes his eyes. He decided long ago that as long as Sherlock tells him about the important issues he doesn’t mind being left out of the smaller loops.

Most of the time.

Mycroft isn’t going to be very happy about this most recent development; maybe he will send Greg to bail them out instead, since he was already making cryptic remarks about working on holiday; however much he didn’t complain about Sherlock’s cases the way he used to in the time before.

The bench vibrates beneath him as Sherlock unfolds. There really is no other way to describe it; John saw an octopus in an aquarium once and the thing had moved in a similar fashion: each tentacle slowly shooting out from its body, still keeping the rest of them tucked in to protect its soft underparts. _Sherloctopus_ he thinks and stifles a hysterical giggle. He opens his eyes to find that Sherlock is now mere centimeters from his face.

“What pray tell is so hilarious?” Sherlock frowns and tightens his lips into a flat line.

John decides that he still wants to kiss him, so he does, fighting the urge to say the stupid word out loud. _Sherloctopus_ , right. Really, this whole situation is growing more ridiculous by the day. Finding two more Holmes siblings in the space of forty-eight hours this far from home? How is this even possible? Who does this?

Apparently him.

When Sherlock pulls back with a tiny swipe of his tongue to the end of John’s nose, his expression is open.

“No, you didn’t dream the whole thing, John. Nor did you get hit on the head. It’s real. Don’t even say the word.”

“Word?” John recrosses his arms over his chest and looks around the boxy cell before it comes to him, “Coincidence?”

Sherlock huffs, “The universe is rarely so lazy.” He starts to pace back and forth in front of the bars.

“So you’re gonna’ tell me you had no idea your brothers would be here? Especially since it seems one of them flies planes and the other one builds them?”

“No.”

“Come on, Sherlock, surely up there in your gigantic brain you thought there may be some possibility.” John pokes at his temple with his index finger.

Sherlock frowns, shakes his head and continues to pace. “No. No idea. I had given up any hope of seeing Martin again, and Sherrinford…John’s this isn’t the place for this. Please.” He stops pacing and gives John such a pained look that John finds himself nodding.

“I’ll just tell you that Sherrinford was only a shadow by the time I was old enough to even understand,” Sherlock offers, head still cocked to one side as if pleading for John to understand.

Sherlock turns on his heels in order to plant his back against the wall, one leg cocked so he can rest his foot flat against the cement block. John, as happens so often, is struck by how gorgeous he is…maybe the poster child for sulky British icons everywhere, especially in those boots. Before they left the hotel, he’d changed into a pair of tight indigo jeans and a skin-tight black T-shirt. John’s eyes rove his partner’s body, approving of the ensemble and now a vague understanding of why Sherlock's luggage is always so heavy dawns on him. Sherlock's head is bowed forward enough that a shock of curls has tumbled down over his eyebrows.

John decides Sherlock looks fucking delicious and he is starving, propriety be damned. He starts to put out a hand and offer his lap, but just as Sherlock starts forward in the seconds before the invitation, the sound of men arguing rolls through the partially-open door at the end of the corridor.

“Sherrinford.”

Sherlock and John lock eyes when Sherlock whispers, both of them holding back snorts at the irritation and something that could be surprise in Mycroft’s voice.

“Hey Mikey, it’s been a long time.” Sherrinford’s deep tone rumbles.

This time John does snort and mouth the word ‘Mikey’ when Sherlock looks at him. Sherlock shakes his head.

“Sherrinford, I’m still Mycroft.”

John can actually see the raised eyebrow and tight-lipped moue. Oh, it was so worth getting booked into a cell just for this.

“So, why are you here Mycroft? Or should I just get rid of the pleasantries altogether and ask you who the fuck you’re spying on _now_?”

John knows his eyebrows have just decided to take a trip to the top of his head.

“It’s complicated,” Sherlock whispers into his ear.

“I figured that, ta very much.” John viciously whispers back.

“Sherrinford…” Mycroft’s voice is tight, restrained.

“Look, Mycroft, it’s all water under the bridge and all that crap. Alright? I’ve grown up and so’ve you.”

John can hear that Sherrinford is putting on his best American drawl for Mycroft’s benefit. As if the man’s voice wasn’t husky enough, the slow pull of it must be like sandpaper on Mycroft’s cultured ears. John puts his hand over his mouth to keep from snorting with laughter; choking it back until his eyes begin to water.

“Besides, I hear our baby-baby brother is in town, too. You could have at least invited me to the family reunion.”

John then hears one of the universe’s most amazing things: Mycroft splutters. “How could you?”

Beside him, Sherlock is quaking with suppressed laughter. “Shhh!” John whispers, patting his thigh. After a second, he stops patting and rubs lightly with his fingertips. Sherlock inhales deeply.

“How could I what, Mycroft? I have to admit to being slightly disappointed when your invitations to every-fucking-thing stopped coming to my house.” Sherrinford pauses dramatically. “I had to go out and actually buy a dart board to use for practice after that.”

John really laughs this time. Granted, he and Mycroft are more friends now than enemies, but it is still hilarious to hear someone else get his goat. Sherlock frowns at him, then cracks a crooked smile, too. To think, John considers, that he thought his life was ridiculous before…

Then there’s something that sounds like a growl and the two men walk in through the exit door. One of them has slammed it the rest of the way open and it creaks on its hinges as it smacks off the gray wall. John keeps his eyes on the floor because he’s afraid he’s going to burst out laughing like a deranged hyena. The voices grow louder and he can make out three sets of footsteps: Mycroft’s calm, everything-in-the-universe-is-mine stride, an unknown, flat-footed one that brings with it the jingle of keys, as well as another set that can only be described as a ground-covering swagger.

Beside him, Sherlock shrugs. John catches his eye, questioning.

“Hmmm…I’m sure Sherrinford is going to think I did him a favor,” the detective drones.

“Sherrinford, I could ask the same of you.” Mycroft states, pompously continuing their discussion as he comes to a halt in front of the cell, back rigid and posture textbook perfect. John has a vision of balancing the biggest encylopedia Sherlock owns right on the top of Mycroft’s head. How in the world can someone look so put-together at this time of night? He’s not even wearing his usual suit, just a pair of walking shorts and a polo shirt.

“Little ole me?” Sherrinford shares a toothy, wicked grin with the four men around him. “Well, that’s a story for the ages, but honestly, I think these two would just as soon get out of here and be somewhere comfortable to hear about it.” Sherrinford jerks a thumb in Sherlock’s direction. “Not to mention the smell of sex musk is so thick in here I think it’s gonna give me a bo…”

Mycroft makes a rude noise through his nose without saying anything else but at least it stops Sherrinford’s rant filled with more information than John thinks he needs to know. He tries to ignore it in favor of the impression that there’s a long-standing argument here that seems just as fresh now as in the dusty mists of time.

Sherrinford and Mycroft stand shoulder-to-shoulder staring in at the others like they’re watching the gorillas at the zoo. Sherrinford shoves his hands down in the back pockets of his jeans and finally looks a little uncomfortable; however, the expression flickers by with the speed of sound.

After a minute of mute Holmes’ posturing, the short, rather rotund officer with the keys clears his throat from behind them. As one, the two men step apart, leaving just barely enough space for the man to fit through in order to unlock the door. He has to step over their toes: one heavily polished pair of loafers and a pair of dusty black work boots.

Once the officer has the cell door open, he clears his throat again,“You are free to go, gentlemen.” He looks rather like the only thing in his life that would make him happy would be to see the backs of the whole lot of them.

John doesn’t have to be told twice. He grabs Sherlock’s hand and drags him out the door, ignoring the twin amused snorts of the brothers Holmes as he heads straight for the exit. Well, at least it sounds like there's something the two of them agree on. 

**Wednesday morning**

John feels like he’s just closed his eyes when his chest is hit by something light and busy. He slowly opens one of them and instantly wants to close it again because it feels like it’s full of sand. Of course, spending half the night discovering new Holmes and then being booked into a holding cell will certainly cause one to miss some sleep, without a doubt.

John groans and forces himself to open the other eye.

Staring down at him is a miniature pair of sea green orbs. Quite fiery, if he does say so himself. Along with those eyes is a very messy head of curls and a very feminine scowl.

“Dad, dad, dad,” Sophie sing-songs. Loudly. As she bounces on his chest.

John knows he’s made some sort of noncommittal sound as the air is forced out of his lungs. He stretches under his boisterous daughter and his hand glances off a muscular shoulder to his left. Sherlock is still here, then. John pokes him with his fingers, a little harder than he’d intended. Sherlock grunts.

Sophie is now jumping on the bed.

The rocking motion of the mattress reminds him of university days waking up with terrible hangovers. At least there's usually only _one_ set of extra limbs...he derails _that_ train of thought when there's an exasperated grunt from beside him, he can tell Sherlock is trying to ignore the jumping and the poking.

It doesn’t work for long.

“Dad, dad, dad! Papa, papa, papa!” Sophie lively sings with each rebound.

The mattress vibrates beneath John’s back. He reaches out to pull Sherlock closer, so that they wind up with Sherlock’s head on his bare chest. Sophie sees the cuddle and decides she wants in on it, so she gives one last hop and lands squarely on Sherlock’s back.

“Ungh…” Sherlock supplies. Sophie giggles. John is quite amused because as difficult as it is to get Sherlock _into_ bed at times, sometimes it’s just as difficult to get him _out_ of it.

“Be glad that was your back and not lower down,” John states blandly, basking in the quiet moment with his family.

Sophie squirms and squiggles until Sherlock finally rolls over and starts tickling her. She squeals and kicks her legs and John takes that as his message to get up. He digs through the suitcase to find some clean clothes whilst Sophie and Sherlock giggle at each other like fools. A soft rap on the half-open door gets his attention and he looks up to see Martin, who is grinning from ear to ear.

“Good morning,” Martin offers.

“Morning,” John answers. He points at Sherlock and Sophie who now seem to be embroiled in some kind of weird wrestling match where Sophie’s clutching one of Sherlock’s arms and laughing, her little feet glancing off his ribcage.

Sherlock sits up and raises his arm so that the little girl is left dangling. Her face is red from laughing so hard and her hair is a disaster area.

“They say ‘good morning’ too, it’s just subtext,” John says.

Martin smiles at them. He really wants to talk to John about his date last night with Douglas, but he’s uncomfortable discussing it with Sherlock in the room.

“Ah, Martin, I never took you to be so forceful. Was it a good kiss?” Sherlock rumbles over Sophie’s giggles.

Martin gives John a look that plain says ‘help me’ but John just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Hurry up daddy, I wanna’ go watch some more planes!” Sophie announces as she lets go Sherlock’s arm and drops to the bed on her back before she slides forward so that she is draped over the foot of it, holding her hands out towards her uncle.

Martin steps forward and picks her up like he’s being doing it his whole life. She hugs his neck and he marvels at how fast she’s wormed her way into his heart. “Morning, Just Sophie.”

On a giggle, Sophie says “Good Morning Just Martin.” She wiggles a little and since he’s already figured out that it means she wants down, he gently lets her back to the floor. “Daddy, Papa, Uncle Martin, I’m gonna go find Grammy Hudson. Kay? Bye!” she announces as she trots from the room. There’s a soft bang and a shriek as she bounces on Mrs. Hudson’s bed.

John shakes his head again. Sherlock sweeps by him, plants a kiss on the top of his head then makes his way to the loo.

“Hey!” John calls after him.

“Talk to Martin, John, he’s dying to tell you about his _date_! Then you can join me,” Sherlock grins from around the bathroom door. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth then winks before disappearing.

John rolls his eyes. “Come on, Martin, let’s at least make some tea first.”

Martin laughs, feeling a new happiness bubble out of him as he agrees and follows John into the sitting area.


	9. Cinnabar, Cynbel and Martin

**Chapter Nine**

**Wednesday**

After breakfast, they all hike out to the airfield where today’s part of the airshow is just starting. Sherlock takes Sophie over to the children’s area to play in the sand for a little while, leaving John and Martin who are soon joined by Greg. John notes Mycroft’s obvious absence from their company, though he studiously says nothing about it. He’s fairly certain that is has to do with bailing them out last night and he’d rather just let that particular sleeping dog lie if he is able rather than spend the morning verbally sparring about who is wrong and who is right between Sherlock and Mycroft.

John is quiet as they stop at a drinks stand then wend their way through the rows of tables to the one reserved for their party.

The three men settle around the table with their drinks as the first of a set of WWII fighter jets whizzes by overhead. Discussion builds slowly between them until Greg turns to Martin and somehow without mentioning Sherrinford, asks him, ”What is it with your family and names, eh? Mycroft, Sherlock… I’ll bet you’re glad you escaped that fate.” The detective inspector grins and claps Martin hard on the back.

Once again, John is struck by the idea that neither Mycroft nor Sherlock have mentioned their eldest brother to the youngest one. Surely Greg knows about him by now.

Martin chokes on his iced tea and his face does a wonderful impression of a radish. “Well…” he manages in between coughs.

“Martin?” John asks, amused.

Martin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand then nervously runs it through his hair.

“Well, go on,” Greg urges.

“My…my name…” Martin tries again then takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe Sherlock hasn’t told you yet,” he sighs miserably, staring at the table. “It’s really Cynbel Martinus.” He blushes so deeply red that he figures he’s probably glowing. “Our mother—that is, Sherlock’s and mine—she was slightly fixated on ancient Celtic culture.”

Greg snorts and tries to hide it behind his hand. John laughs and rests his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “That’s a mouthful,” he says carefully, “any idea what it means?”

Martin’s eyes widen when he realizes they aren’t going to make fun of him. “Yeah, actually I do.” He looks between the two men, tries to pretend he is studying the planes more than their reactions. Vaguely, he wonders to himself why what they think even _matters_ so much to him.

Then Greg smiles encouragingly, “Go on, Martin, you’ve got us fixated now, you’ve got to tell us.”

Martin takes a deep drink from his tea, wishing for a bit of courage. “Alright,” he says, resigned to his fate, “Did you know Sherlock’s name means ‘close-cropped’ or ‘light haired?’”

John chuckles, “Nope, that’s funny.”

“Mine’s even more ridiculous.”

“Quit stalling, already!” Greg claps Martin’s other shoulder.

“Fine.” Martin cocks a Holmesian eyebrow at the detective. “Well, Cynbel supposedly means ‘chief.’”

He waits for the laughter to begin; instead he’s pleasantly surprised by a deep voice saying behind him, “It fits you.”

“Douglas?” Martin queries, turning in his chair. He gulps, “Guess you heard that then, huh?”

“Indeed I did, _Captain_ , it is sort of…how do you say? Catchy.” Douglas tells him as he takes one of the empty chairs.

“Just…just don’t call me that.” Martin stammers.

“Oh, whyever not? You do blush so beautifully…” Douglas purrs.

Martin squeaks as Greg’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline and John just about dumps his beverage in his lap, he’s laughing so hard.

“What did I tell you this morning, Martin?” John asks, tilting his head in Douglas’ direction. He’s referring to the conversation they had while Sherlock was in the shower. John told Martin that it sounds like Douglas is already crazy about the younger man.

Somehow, though, Martin hadn’t told anyone else about the job offer with MJN yet, perhaps now wasn’t the time, either.

Martin’s eyes move from John’s face to Douglas’ and then back again. “I think you’re right,” he agrees.

Douglas grins and drops his arm around Martin’s shoulders and the men go back to watching the aerial display and discussing random topics.

***

Sherlock and Sophie reappear about an hour later with Mrs. Hudson in tow. Somewhere along the line, she’s managed to finagle a basket lunch for all of them. She busies herself setting out paper plates and napkins for them, then a bunch of wrapped sandwiches and bags of crisps.

The beautiful day settles around them as they take in a stunt flier who is piloting a bright orange plane. Martin does a bit of narration, explaining to them what the pilot is looking for, how she’s feeling the plane’s reactions through the stick; little things that seem to impress the others.

“You seem to really love the air, Martin,” Mrs. Hudson says wisely.

“I do, ma’am. For a long time, it was everything to me,” Martin tells her, his eyes on Douglas who grins back at him.

John can see the look on Mrs. Hudson’s face that seems to be asking: _Are they moving too fast_? He gives her a wink and a little shake of his head and she smiles at him then reaches out and pats Martin’s hand as if he'd always been there. Sophie clambers down out of her lap and asks Sherlock for her planes.

Sherlock holds his empty hands out and Sophie inspects them closely. “I don’t have them in my hands,” he says.

“I saw them, Papa,” she narrows her eyes.

“You did,” Sherlock confirms.

Sophie stares at him a little harder, doing an excellent impression of him scanning someone from head to toe. Finally seeing the right answer, she squeals.

“Pockets! Your shorts have pockets!”

Sherlock grins at her and produces the little models from said pockets. She laughs and drops to her knees in order to crawl under the table where she purses her lips and starts making airplane noises.

They are all finishing their meals when Mycroft joins them, but he’s not alone.

Sherrinford stops cold at the end of the table and eyes Martin with an expression of a man seeing a giant phantom hound suddenly solidify in the mist.

“Martin?” he whispers.

Martin stares right back, blinks. “Do I know you?”

It is completely against Sherlock’s nature to let any great reveal go by without his input. “Martin, this is our eldest half-brother, Sherrinford.”

Sherrinford moves closer, holds out his hand. Martin reaches for it meekly then is swept up in a massive bear hug. Sherrinford has pulled him right out of his chair.

“Little Cinnabar!” Sherrinford shouts, pounding Martin’s back with his hand. “I heard through the grapevine you might be here! Can’t believe these two fools didn’t bring you to see me!” He is speaking to Sherlock and Mycroft, but he’s only got eyes for Martin. “Step back, let me look at you.”

Martin swallows the lump in his throat and steps back, his arms tightly clamped to his sides.

“You’ve hardly changed at all, Cinnabar.” Sherrinford allows.

“Why’re you calling me that?” Martin wonders.

“I guess you don’t remember me, do you?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t.” Martin takes his seat next to Douglas again; the older man senses a bit of his anguish and so scoots a little closer.

“Martin, the last time I saw you, you were six months old and I was twenty-one. Up until the day I left…for argument's sake, and there was a lot of them, let us just say I left to start my career…it was you and me, night and day.”

Sherrinford nods his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as she conjures up another sandwich. He grabs an empty chair from the table beside them, gives a charming grin to the people there then gracefully drops into it, backwards so that he is facing them with his legs spread, black boots planted flat on the ground.

No one else says anything; John, Douglas and Greg are transfixed, eager to hear the rest of _that_. John and Greg know only about the Holmes family what Sherlock and Mycroft have allowed them-and that tiny trickle is nothing like the flood they are receiving now. Even the airplanes up above can’t hold a candle to this.

They’re all quiet for a few minutes, seeming to absorb the information until Sophie breaks the silence, “So, I have another uncle now?” She turns her face up to Mrs. Hudson from where she sits in the older woman’s lap. Mrs. Hudson beams and nods.

“Yes, you must be Miss Sophie,” Sherrinford says as he offers her his hand. Her tiny one virtually disappears.

“Wow,” she says, mesmerized, green eyes open wide.

“Tell us more,” John orders, his voice curious rather than commanding.

Sherrinford shrugs. “What do you want to know?” He frowns then turns to Mycroft. “Still keeping secrets, eh, brother dear?”

Mycroft starts to speak but Sherlock interrupts him by waving an impatient hand over the table. “Tell them.”

“I don’t know where to start, really. As far as family history goes, our mother’s name was Victoria. She was married to Sieger Leonard Holmes and produced Mycroft and myself.” Sherrinford grins to them like he’s on stage.

“Victoria passed away when I was six,” Mycroft adds.

Sherrinford nods. “Right, I was fourteen. Sieger remarried a woman named Wendy Crieff and she had Sherlock then three years later, Martin, here.” He points his thumb towards Martin, who blushes again.

“Ok, that makes sense. Wendy must be the woman Mycroft refers to as ‘Mummy’ then,” John interjects.

“Indeed.” Mycroft agrees.

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. Martin looks embarrassed, as he still feels new here.

“She was more a mum to me than Victoria, I was so young when she passed. I remember her a little; mostly I remember Wendy as a vibrant woman who loved gardening. Both Sherlock and Martin had these fluffy heads of hair when they were little—they’d play among the flowers and the shrubbery for hours…” Mycroft reminisces.

Greg grins at the wistful look of nostalgia gracing his husband’s features. “That’s sweet,” he chuckles.

Mycroft promptly turns as red as Martin.

They share a laugh as the announcer calls over the loudspeakers for an intermission.

“I’ve got an idea, wanna tromp over to the hangar with me and take a look at my plane? John, you sure seemed a bit enamored of her…and she’s done now, ready to fly tomorrow.”

“A plane?” Martin asks, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous,” John tells him.

Sherlock, up to this point oddly quiet, surprises them all by saying, “Let’s go.”

“I’ll beg off,” Mycroft says, holding his hands out towards Sophie. She climbs up onto his lap. “I think I promised a certain someone a few turns around the pool this afternoon.”

“Alright.” John gives Sophie a kiss. “We’ll see you later then? Douglas, you coming along?”

“Actually, no, John, I’ve got another meeting with the SheWolf," he mutters, sad to be missing out. "I mean, my wonderful employer. I was supposed to meet her an hour ago to let her know if I had any idea when I’m going to be released. I’ll catch up with you at some point. Alright, Martin?” he asks, seeing the look in Martin’s eyes. “You’ll meet her soon enough, I reckon.”

Martin nods, glad his brothers have ignored that statement for the time being. Douglas gives him a soft kiss and Martin turns to follow the others, blushing madly.

***

Sherrinford quickly taps his security code into the box by the walk-in door of the hangar.

“Don’t even try it, Sherlock. I’ve been changing the code every hour.”

Sherlock huffs, “Had no need for it anyway.”

John shakes his head. They make their way down the long hallway again. Sherrinford flips on some lights and they see the beautiful aircraft standing by herself in the center of the hangar. All of the machines and tools used in building her have been moved to the walls, out of the way, and the plane has been turned so that she’s facing towards the hangar door, ready to be towed out to the flight line.

Martin is enthralled. He walks up to the craft, touching the metal with his fingertips as if he’s afraid it will break; he traces the Holmes Manufacturing logo, then reaches up and pats her bow-shaped nose as he passes. He whistles.

“She’s gorgeous, Sherrinford.”

“Wanna fly her tomorrow?”

“What?” Martin almost looks like he’s going to faint.

“Take it easy there, Cinnabar, you can’t fly if you pass out cold!” Sherrinford laughs.

John decides for the moment to not mention Martin’s crash; instead he cruises around the opposite side of the plane, his eyes roving over the fuselage. He stops, too, right by a small door just under the sliding top over the cockpit.

“What’s this?” he asks the room in general just as Martin stammers out a positive answer to Sherrinford’s question.

“Let me see.” Sherlock says, moving to John’s side. He pries the little door open the rest of the way as John bends down and gently handles what appears to be a lose wire by grasping it against his palm and following it upward.

John’s hand touches Sherlock’s where he’s holding open the odd little door. “Oh god,” he says.

Sherrinford crosses the hangar in six strides to stop beside them. Martin joins them from around the front of the plane.

“Sherrinford?” he asks.

Sherlock points at the ball of wires behind the door and the two tall men can clearly make out a tiny LED clock face flashing bright red numbers:

**_10:00:00_ **

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t build it that way!” Sherrinford raises his hands and all four of them step back away from the aircraft.


	10. Questions

**Chapter Ten**

**Wednesday**

“Carolyn, will you please come off it?” Douglas huffs, exasperated. He drops his chin into his hand and stares at his boss.

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, CEO of MJN, stares right back. “I most certainly am not going to hire someone to pilot GERTI based on your recommendation that he is _wonderful_.”

Douglas sighs and rolls his eyes then shakes his head back and forth in his hand. “Look, I’m sorry that sort of slipped out…truly, you know me better than _that_ , Carolyn.”

She regards him shrewdly, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. “You promise me that you aren’t trying to get him in the cockpit because he’s your most recent fling?” Carolyn taps her light pink fingernails on the small café table between them. “Of course, it still remains to be seen if he can _fly_. Just because he’s idiot enough to crawl all over a plane in the air doesn’t mean that he can pilot one…”

Douglas interrupts her, “Carolyn, he can fly. I saw enough of that insane landing Monday. I think I can trust putting my life in his hands.”

Carolyn snorts, “I think it’s more than your _life_ you want to put in his hands, Douglas.”

Douglas feels the heat creep up his neck and over his face. Really, what can he say to that? “I admit that I find Martin attractive. However, he has talent. Trust me. When all this is over and we can go home—did I even mention that he’s from Fitton, for God’s sake?—just give him a chance. Will you do that for me?”

“Fine, Douglas, fine. I’ve something else I need to discuss with you while we’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I really need to get my company back on track, I’m sure you understand.”

Douglas nods.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get home if I convince Hercules it’s time to get out of here?” She snaps open the big pocketbook in her lap and hands him an airline ticket. “I know you can’t leave yet, there’s no date on this one. I’m not thrilled about leaving you, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“It’s only been three days, Carolyn.”

“As I am well aware. Time is money, Douglas.” Carolyn makes a shooing gesture in his direction.

Douglas is a bit stunned by her sudden generosity. “The hotel room?”

“MJN is taking care of that for you, as well. Promise me you won’t party like a teenager.” She smirks.

Douglas laughs. “No, Carolyn, I’ll be on my best behavior. Hopefully it will wrap up soon and I get home.”

“Agreed. I won’t see you again until then, I’m sure. Be safe getting back. Both of you.” Carolyn touches his shoulder as she leaves the restaurant.

“Without a doubt.” Douglas says, mostly to himself because she’s out of hearing range. He looks around and wonders if he’s made the right decision. It feels _right_ , though he can’t really put his finger on exactly the reason why. Briefly he considers ordering a cup of coffee, thinks better of it and exits the building, hoping he’ll catch up with Martin sooner rather than later in order to share the wonderful news.

***

John stares at Sherlock; somewhere in the back of his mind dances the idea that they are always destined to end up in situations like this one. Martin stares at the little open door as he slowly backs away from the aircraft.

Sherrinford, hands on his hips, stares into the ether and somehow manages to look disgusted at the same time. “..the hell?”

Sherlock leans over the plane and pokes about with his index finger until John can’t take it any longer.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to stop. You’re going to give me a heart attack.” He knows better, though, Sherlock’s gonna keep prodding at the unknown bomb until they all either die or he figures the damn thing out.

“Mr. Holmes?” A voice calls out from the little door.

“Yes.” Sherlock and Sherrinford answer simultaneously.

The man, who turns out to be another security guard, looks bewildered. Instead of trying to decipher the issue, he merely says, “someone called about an alleged bomb?”

“Yes.” Sherrinford nods in the man’s direction then gestures towards the plane. He almost has to elbow his younger brother out of the way but at the last second, Sherlock moves over about half a foot. Sherrinford doesn't seem to find it strange.

John, glad to see someone else doesn't mind Sherlock's lack of personal space, crosses the room and joins Martin leaning on the wall facing the aircraft.

“You alright?” John asks him.

Martin nods, still looking slightly shell-shocked. “I don’t know which thing to be more worried about…the bomb or the fact that I was just invited to fly an experimental aircraft.”

“Well, I’m sure Sherrinford wouldn’t ask you unless he felt you’re up to it.” John answers, feeling rather paternal at the moment.

Martin shakes his head, ginger curls bouncing about. He laughs and it comes out rather strained. “I’ve always _dreamt_ of flying something like that…and it is amazing to think of, ‘course this may put the kibosh on it right away, but at least for a few minutes I was permitted the _thought_.” He grins.

“Ah, Martin, don’t think about it too much.” John states, giving Martin a light pat on the upper arm.

Martin chuckles again. “Is this how your lives are all the time?”

John considers that as he watches several uniformed officers enter the hangar and confer with Sherrinford. Sherlock hovers about, miraculously remaining mute.

“Sort of,” he answers with a quick grin.

Martin, mollified, relaxes against the wall and watches the other men futz around with the plane. He hums a bit under his breath, but doesn’t answer John.

John appreciates the quiet company. His eyes track Sherlock as the detective paces to and fro, occasionally silently punctuating a thought in his head with his hands. John knows those gestures well. In fact, he is really starting to believe it's perhaps the only thing about Sherlock he knows well at all.

But that’s not entirely true, is it? John asks himself. Since Sherlock came home, as he prefers to think about the time Sherlock was _dead_ , there haven’t been many secrets between them. Truly, he never really asked any straightforward questions about Sherlock’s family…and wasn’t that just the rub, right there? Very few times in their friendship did Sherlock ever really evade a direction question. John never really asked.

Martin moves next to him, shifting his light frame into a better position on the hard cement. John likes him and thinks they will be good friends in no time. He can’t find it in himself to be too angry at Sherlock; maybe someone else would be…but he’s forgiven for much worse, and besides, it is Sherlock eccentric ‘mad scientist’ personality to sometimes forget things that other people deem important. Never mind the fact that John never asked him, because John truly believed Mycroft and Sherlock were all there were.

One of these days, John thinks, he’s going to learn to stop assuming where the Holmes brothers are concerned.

John stares at Sherlock until his partner lifts his head from his contemplation and offers John a small smile that’s really not much more than a simple twitch of his lips. The hangar is rather crowded now, and Sherrinford is explaining to a uniformed woman about how they discovered the bomb in his plane.

A heavy silence descends over the room as Sergeant Barkley cruises through. Apparently, his own coworkers like him about as much as John does.

“Who’s that?” Martin asks.

“One of the security…” John starts as the man who has taken over Sherlock’s earlier job of aimlessly poking at the bomb calls out in alarm.

“Chief? Should these numbers be…Oh Shit!” he shouts as he backs away from the aircraft with his hands in the air as if to ward off an attack.

Silence reigns for about two seconds then pandemonium erupts and people are running for the exits. A heavy body collides against John and Sherrinford hauls him towards the door with one big hand clamped on John’s good shoulder. John refuses to stop and consider the implications of that as he yanks at Sherrinford’s hand and tries unsuccessfully to drag his feet.

“Sherlock?” is all he can get out because as they move forward, several more members of what John is sure must be a bomb squad rush in past them.

“John you know him, let him do what he’s best at.” Sherrinford says loudly, shoving John out of the hangar. “Come on!” the older man continues to push John until they are about fifty feet from the building.

John looks around in mild confusion. “Okay, Sherlock is in there,” he points at the hangar, “Then where is Martin? He was just beside me.”

“I thought…” Sherrinford blinks, “Hell! I don’t even know what I thought…I saw him with that security guard that came in a few minutes ago. Maybe they went out the emergency exit.”

John can tell when someone is trying to convince himself of something. “Why would Barkley even talk to Martin?” he queries, then wonders how he even missed that the guard had walked right up on him without being noticed.

“John, I had to get you out. As soon as everyone started moving, Sherlock told me in no uncertain terms to get you out,” Sherrinford informs him, looking a bit lost. He rolls his jaw and scratches at his goatee.

“And you simply followed orders, just like that?” John is gobsmacked.

“Well, yeah. You’re the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock, besides Sophie and there’s no way I’m going to be responsible for…”

“Alright, I get it.” John stops him by raising his hand in the air. It’s just too weird coming from a Holmes. Seriously too weird. “Fine. What about Martin?”

“Martin was with a uniform, I really thought they were right behind us.” Sherrinford frowns, seems to be angry with himself now. “I’ll go and look for him.”

John shakes his head, but his reply is stalled as Douglas strolls up to them from the opposite direction. He takes in their surroundings and asks what’s going on. At the same time, Sherlock flings open the human-sized door, his gaze falling on John exclusively.

“It’s all clear.”

Of course the universe just wants Sherlock to be wrong once in a while, so as if to put a full stop on that statement, a deep rumbling sounds out from behind him and his eyes widen. Sherlock rushes forward and John catches him. Sherrinford clutches at Douglas and the four men drop to the ground.

There’s a muffled boom and the roof of the hangar explodes upward, splitting the metal that drops to the sides like a stove-top pan of popcorn. Flames burst out the fissure and the world trembles beneath them.

The tremors roll to a stop and John sits up next to Sherlock, yanking him forward in order to inspect him for damage. He wipes at the debris and dust on Sherlock’s shoulders. There are a few minor cuts and scrapes on his legs, and one on his cheek. John's fared only slightly better, though he thinks his palms are going to be bruised from hitting the tarmac full force. The others are in similar shape.

“Goddammit Sherlock! The one time you fuck up, you sure do it in a big way!” Sherrinford shouts as he climbs back to his feet. Next to him, Douglas is knocking the dirt from his clothes, staring at them with a shocked expression. Sherrinford glares at all of them, though John can register the quick mind taking stock of their individual situations. Finally, Sherrinford stares at his brother.

John recognizes what is happening all too well. Sherrinford’s expression says clearly: _I’m terrified but I’m going to bury it in anger so you don’t see_.

“That was my plane!” Sherrinford yells again, pointing towards what's left of the hanger, then shuts up when John steps forward and hugs him.

“Oh,” Sherlock mutters softly behind them.

John lets him go and Sherrinford clears his throat, twice, looks off into the distance, coughs once then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “thanks.” John appreciates that the older man seems more anchored now, his expression less frantic.

Chaos continues to spiral around them: sirens blaring, a huge red ladder truck races onto the scene, firemen and women jump out of and off it and start dragging out hoses. People shouting orders over the roar of the fire in the hangar.

“Come on, let’s find Martin,” Sherrinford orders gruffly. He leads them around to the back side of the building where the emergency door stands wide open, but of Martin there is no sign; at least to the naked eye.

Ignoring everything, Sherlock drops to his knees and slowly reads the evidence he knows is there, then again to be sure.

“Two sets of prints, someone fell here,” the detective points to the grassy area to the right of the sidewalk that the exit door opens out to. They all take in the unnatural flattened place amidst the yellow heat-damaged grass. Sherlock meets John’s gaze as he straightens up, his expression closed, tense.

“What does that mean?” Douglas hesitantly asks, fearing the answer.

“It means someone must have waited for him, most likely until our attention was elsewhere and then forcibly removed him from the vicinity.”

“What?” Douglas’ brain doesn’t seem to want to register the detective's words.

Sherrinford rests his hand on Douglas’ shoulder; the motion is grounding. Douglas looks up at Sherrinford.

“Sherlock means that Martin’s been kidnapped.”

Douglas exhales, feels his knees go weak. “Oh, my god.”


	11. Plans

**Chapter Eleven**

**Early Thursday morning**

Martin opens his eyes and the world tilts on its axis and that is just _not right_ on so many levels that he instantly closes them again. His head hurts worse now than it did two days ago after crash-landing a plane. A miserable whimper comes out of nowhere and it takes him a moment to realize that it is him; he can only see the plain gray wall of an airplane hangar in front of him when he finally gets the courage up and peeks through half-open eyelids.

Martin tries to move only to find that his hands are tied behind his back and he is lying on his side on a very hard, very cold floor. His right leg is painfully numb, but it hurts too badly for it to just be from having it bent beneath him. Something is not right. Martin shuts his eyes again as a fresh jolt of pain screeches up into his thigh and he makes an aborted attempted to grab at his knee. The result is that he simply pulls at his back and cries out in agony.

“What a wimpy little bitch you are, eh?” A man’s voice calls out from someplace behind him.

Martin fights against the pain for a moment and attempts to look over his shoulder. The security guard who helped him out the exit door of Sherrinford’s hangar comes into view as he rolls Martin to his other side using his feet for leverage.

“Guess I should have taped your mouth shut.” The guard pulls a roll of silver duct tape from the pocket of his jacket and holds it up as if for inspection.

Martin frowns and shakes his head slightly.

“Oh, no, don’t you worry. You’re already half to being done, anyway. Shutting you up now is pretty much a waste of my time.” The man grimaces wickedly, “And come to think of it, yours too, or at least what you have left, that is.”

Martin decides not to say anything. The uniformed man, though, apparently wants more excitement than that so he leans down and pokes hard at Martin’s right thigh with his index finger.

Martin howls.

The security guard laughs, a humorless sound that echoes around the empty hangar. He pulls down on the legs of the rumpled flight suit Martin is now wearing, being sure to tug hard enough to jostle the leg again.

Martin bites back any sound now but is horrified to feel a tear makes its way down his face. “Who are you?” he manages to stammer.

“Let’s just say I’m someone who’s tired of being dicked around by people like the Holmes family. Name’s Barkley.” Barkley stands up straight and crosses his arms over his chest with a little nod. He puts one booted foot on Martin’s hip and presses down.

Martin grits his teeth. The man’s answer makes no sense to him.

Barkley ignores this, seeming to warm up to his subject. “None of them can ever stay out of everyone else’s business. Truly, I don’t give a shit about what happens on the _other side of the pond_ ,” he takes his foot off Martin, but not without first kicking him with the toe of his boot; his voice is hollow, seething.

“But they just won’t leave me well enough alone here on my own turf.” Barkley raises his hands to the roof as if the empty hangar is a congregation of eager listeners hanging on his every righteous word.

Martin is starting to think the man may just be deranged, so he stays mute; because at least when he’s talking, he’s not kicking at him.

“I had this all planned out,” Barkley continues as he strides away from where Martin, “Higgins was as good as _mine_. Then that damn Holmes prances in here and knocks out two legs of my plan. See, no one could agree with my vision. That asshole Penn wouldn’t know how to execute a plan if I wrote it in black marker and stuck it to the fucker’s forehead.”

Barkley is down at the opposite end of the hangar now, pacing back and forth. Martin can’t make out every word, but he’s hearing enough to put the man behind bars for a long time. He has no clue who Higgins is and he wonders which one of his brothers is responsible for crushing Barkley’s plans. His best bet for now, however, seems to be to stay quiet and hope that someone has noticed his absence.

Martin doesn’t get to do that for too long, however, because Barkley returns to him and forcibly hauls him upward. Martin’s injured leg shakes and gives out but Barkley manages to hold him tight.

“If you try to get away again, I’m just going to kill you right here. Do you understand me?” With a half-crazed expression of anger, Barkley snarls into Martin’s face. He hefts the smaller man over his shoulder and takes the time to ensure a squeeze to his injured thigh for good measure.

Martin is beyond words at this point, the pain from his leg is shooting burning tendrils up into his back. He merely nods and doesn’t fight it as Barkley drags him down the hangar and out the back door like a sack of potatoes. Every single step taken the bulky security guard only serves to jar his leg. By the time they reach yet another hangar, Martin is almost relieved to be set down. Only for a second, though, then he finds himself hauled upward again and unceremoniously dropped into a seat.

“Now, you sit there and be a good boy for me, alright?” Barkley says in strange tone that seems a mix between anger and pride. He reaches in and buckles Martin into the seat then steps back. “I’m standing on a footstool, so don’t try anything stupid.”

Martin nods again, not trusting his ability to speak coherently and not just scream. 

“Good,” Barkley pats the back of Martin’s head roughly then leans back to inspect his handiwork. “You are a cute little bastard, it’s too bad I don’t swing that direction,” Barkley mutters as he tightens up the shoulder strap. “Well, it’s been a good day for me, I think I will be seeing you in a couple of hours when it is time for your act!” He starts to climb down, then hesitates and pops back up.

Martin can feel his eyes widen in fear as the man pulls his fist back.

“Probably better if you sleep for a bit, cutie pie, that way I know you’ll stay out of trouble.” Barkley’s fist contacts Martin’s temple and Martin falls forward against the windscreen of the aircraft. He doesn’t hear Barkley’s nasty laugh nor is he aware of the way the man runs his fingers down Martin’s jaw; thankfully he’s completely oblivious to the thoughts in the other man’s head.

Satisfied that his plan will now go off without another hitch, Barkley swaggers from the hangar to continue his rounds as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

But then, Barkley didn’t count on _Sherlock_.

***

Staring down into the dregs of a miserable cup of coffee, Douglas is fairly certain he is going to have a heart attack. He is terrified for Martin and feeling just a little bit sorry for himself as well. It is just so unfair to finally find someone like Martin to have it messed up by this horrible escapade. Douglas steadies himself as he looks to the other men in the room, thinking it is selfish to worry about himself when two of them have lost their _brother_.

Sherlock is pacing the conference room like a caged panther. John is perched on one end of a long plastic table and Sherrinford is sitting on the opposite end of it. Both of them have their backs to the wall. They have all been speaking in low tones, but Douglas has been paying very little attention, instead concerned that no matter what they do it will be too late.

“Douglas, I will find him,” Sherlock states assuredly as he stops at Douglas’ side.

Douglas looks up to him. Behind Sherlock, John nods.

“We don’t even know where to begin…” Douglas offers into the heavy silence.

Sherrinford lowers himself off the table. “Yes we do.”

Accustomed to the Holmes version of non-verbal communication, John follows suit. Sherlock steps back and allows Sherrinford to open the door. Their eyes meet and Sherlock nods. They walk quickly down the hallway towards the exit.

“What?” Douglas turns to John.

“They know, or at least highly suspect, who took Martin,” John states as Douglas catches up with him.

“You got all that from _that_?” Douglas asks, stunned. He holds a hand out towards where the other men have already disappeared from view.

John nods and shrugs as he holds the glass door open for Douglas. “Years of practice.”

“Why aren’t they telling us?”

“Well, Sherlock never likes to tell until he’s one hundred and thirteen percent certain he’s on the right track. I don’t know Sherrinford well enough, but I’d hazard a guess that he’s not very far behind in the regard.”

“I have to ask, John, how often is Sherlock wrong?” They cross the grounds at a good clip, headed back towards the hangars.

“On occasion.”

Douglas considers that for a moment. He is starting to wonder if he needs to add some cardio to his regular routine because these long walks around the airfield are starting to get to him. By the time they stop, he’s breathing heavily.

“John, go to the security headquarters or whatever these Americans call it and find Lestrade.” Sherlock orders when they catch up with him.

“Shacks, Sherlock, they call it a guard shack,” Sherrinford corrects.

“Whatever,” Sherlock waves a hand in the air between them. “If this is what I think it is, John, someone will obviously be missing.”

“Someone is already missing: Martin.” Douglas states.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Take him with you.” He and Sherrinford turn away from them.

“What?” Douglas tries.

“Come on, Douglas, I’ll explain on the way.” John points towards a golf cart that’s parked a few feet from the door of one of the many hangars.

Douglas nods his agreement. As they pass behind the two Holmes brothers, he notices that John reaches out for Sherlock’s hand, even though the detective has them clasped behind his back. There’s a quick squeeze of fingers and before he knows it, John’s started the golf cart and they are headed towards the guard shack. He looks back to see Sherrinford and Sherlock jogging around the backside of the hangar.

“Do you know who he suspects?” Douglas grips the roof of the golf cart as John guns the little engine, causing the machine to leap forward.

“No,” John answers honestly.

“No? You just sort of follow orders then?”

“Yes. I trust him, Douglas,” John tells him, squinting a little and holding his hand over his eyes. “I think it’s that one.” He points towards a small building, a hut really, beside the entrance gate to the airfield.

Douglas agrees wordlessly and holds on tight as John steers the golf cart off the asphalt and over a large patch of grass before stopping next to the shack. It is a small wooden building about the size of a tool shed, with a large rectangular window facing the entrance road of the airport. John opens the door and sucks in a breath.

“Hello Mr. Watson, how is your day?” Officer Barkley asks from behind a bank of monitors. He’s got a bag of Doritos in his lap and his feet up on the desk. He grins but the sentiment of the expression doesn't touch his eyes.

In an instant, realization hits John like a ton of bricks. He knows why he’s here now but he needs to get Douglas out of the way.

“Could you give me a minute?” John asks Barkley. The other man nods and licks orange powder off his fingertips.

“Douglas, would you take the golf cart back to where it belongs?” John turns his back to Barkley as he asks, raising his eyebrows at Douglas and hoping the pilot gets the hint.

It takes Douglas two heartbeats for his brain to form an answer. “Sure.”

“Remember what I said earlier?” John asks.

“Yes.” Douglas answers, still a little confused as to his exact part in this whole thing.

“Well, this is one of those times," John states blandly as if he is only discussing the weather.

A light bulb flashes on in Douglas’ mind. Oh! It all comes quickly when he realizes that John is telling him that he needs to get back to Sherlock and tell him _something_. An image of Martin’s happy expression at watching the aerial show yesterday pops up unbidden in his mind. “Got it,” he tells John, knowing that the sooner he gets back to the detective, the sooner he’ll get Martin back.

Douglas leaves the shack and climbs back into the golf cart. As he reaches to turn the ignition key, something shifts beside him. He starts the machine and turns to the man who has sat down in the passenger seat. Before he has time to register what he’s seeing, the man slugs him and he slumps forward, his forehead landing on the padded middle of the steering wheel.

The big man turns the cart off and pockets the key, leaving Douglas alone. He opens the door to the guard shack and steps through then closes it softly, locking it behind him. In front of the long desk covered with monitors, John spins around to face the newcomer. As he turns in shock, he can just make out Barkley hold his thumbs up behind him.

 


	12. Using Your Head

**Chapter Twelve: Using Your Head**

**Thursday afternoon**

Douglas comes to with a thumping headache; he’s aware enough to turn the ignition on the golf cart. Though his hands are shaking badly, he manages enough control to know that he’s got to find Sherlock and warn him of what must be happening inside the guard shack. He hesitates for a few seconds but he doesn’t hear any particularly strenuous sounds from inside so he makes up his mind and backs away from the shack and hightails it towards the various hangars and Quonset huts where he and John left the two Holmes brothers earlier.

As he drives over the bumpy ground and back onto the tarmac, he fervently wishes he’d remembered to grab his mobile this morning. On top of that, he hopes in his dizzy state he won’t crash the golf cart or pass out again, at least before getting back to Sherlock. Douglas stuffs the replay of Sherlock telling him Martin has been kidnapped to the back of his mind and puts all of his quickly draining energy to work concentrating on driving.

***

“There’s two of them, probably a brother. Most likely a twin,” Sherlock announces apropos of nothing as Sherrinford pulls a dainty tool from the pocket of his jeans.

“I concur,” Sherrinford agrees, his eyes on the padlock in his hand.

Sherrinford picks the lock with a professional ease Sherlock envies; mostly because his eldest brother did it in half the time it would have taken _him_ to do it. As it swings open, the daylight catches on the only plane inside and a look passes between them. A rumble overhead reminds them that the show is in full swing and there is only so much time to waste. They don’t speak when Sherrinford steps back to allow Sherlock the first look into the hangar.

Sherrinford nods his chin at the plane and walks towards the farthest wall. The daylight in here is sullied by dirt recently smeared on the windows, one of the many clues that lead them to this building rather than any of the others. He watches as Sherrinford stalks through the light and shadows, then files away the detail in order to tell John about it. It’s the type of romantic stuff John likes to include in his _stories_.

Pulling his attention back to the task at hand, Sherlock quickly scans the area, ascertaining that he is correct in thinking that Martin’s kidnappers are being kept busy by John. Cautiously, he makes his way to the airplane parked in the center of the hangar whilst Sherrinford is walking the perimeter of the room, double checking that Sherlock’s theories about _who and when_ are correct.

The detective knows there’s going to be hell to pay for not explaining the twin scenario to his partner fully, but Sherlock despises being even the tiniest bit wrong. Up until now, not much evidence has been apparent to support that theory; he’s one hundred percent sure of it, he thinks, as he brushes some mismatched dust off the wing of the little plane.

Right over his head, there’s a groan and he can sense when Sherrinford freezes and runs towards him. Sherlock hauls himself up onto the wing and shoves at the latch on the top. He leans in over the cockpit, steadying himself on his hands as he pushes the top out of the way.

“Hello Martin,” Sherlock says calmly as the younger man flinches at the scrape of hinges then blinks at him.

Sherrinford is already shouting into his phone.

***

It seems like it’s only been a few minutes since Barkley left him alone when Martin hears the snick of the door on the opposite side of the room open. He’s strapped into the pilot’s seat so tightly that he can barely turn his head to look around. Two different sets of footsteps approach and one moves away. Martin closes his eyes and offers a prayer up to whatever deity might possibly be listening to him that if he’s going to go out this way, please let it be quick. At least his aching leg has gone numb from the way it is wedged beneath his body. All he can hear for a few moments is the sound of his own heartbeat.

There’s a creak of metal as someone steps up onto the wing then the top over his head is pushed back. It knocks loudly and Martin flinches at the sound.

“Hello Martin,” Sherlock automatically adjusts the volume of his voice as Martin cracks his eyelids and peers between them. Behind his brother, another voice that could never be mistaken for anything except a Holmes is shouting into a mobile.

Martin is so relieved that he forgets about the straps and his leg for a minute and automatically attempts to stand up. The pain in his leg forces him to stop long before he remembers the seat belts. Sherlock pushes the latches on the buckles, green eyes sweep over him from head to toe and he halts any more movement with a palm on Martin’s shoulders.

“Sherrinford, his leg is broken,” Sherlock says it quietly, but his baritone still echoes off the sheet metal walls of the hangar.

Sherrinford gruffly barks out another order and stops below where Sherlock rests one knee against the wing of the plane. Martin tries to give him a smile, only managing a twist of his lips.

“Douglas is fine, Martin, he’s with John.” Sherrinford answers Martin’s unasked question.

Martin nods and rests his head against the seat; Sherlock squeezes his shoulder and he closes his eyes and waits for the help that he knows his brothers will provide.

***

“What the hell?” John asks, making fast work to size up the situation. He hears the scrape of the chair behind him and knows Barkley has just vacated it. Keeping his eyes on the man in front of him, he listens to see just how far Barkley is willing to go.

“I done some research on the two of you,” Barkley chuckles menacingly, his voice as oily as his hair.

John hears Barkley pick something up off the floor and the dull thud as it smacks against his palm. He refuses to turn away from the uniformed man standing in front of the exit. The man who is identical to the one at his back except for the old scar, probably received in childhood, running down the right side of his face. His expression is somewhat softer, maybe even less aware than Barkley’s calculating facade.

“Fuckin’ queers the bunch of ya. I’m not impressed. In fact, had I known Holmes was related to all of…”

John turns slowly on his feet in order to face Barkley, who has a red baseball bat in his hand, using it to describe a big circle in the air. He surely looks prepared to use it, so John’s got to think fast.

“Which Holmes?” He asks, ignored when Barkley talks over him. For some reason, that little detail seems important at the moment.

“What do you think, Arley?” Barkley asks his twin in a casual voice.

Arley mumbles something that John doesn’t quite catch, but it really makes no difference in the end because Barkley takes a deep breath in the millisecond before he swings the bat towards John’s head. Behind him there's a wicked chuckle from Arley.

John Watson may be retired from HM’s service, but his reflexes are as sharp as they have ever been. He ducks at the same time Arley lunges at him. The baseball bat makes an earsplitting _crack_ as it thumps against Arley’s skull and the big man crumples into a heap with a groan.

Barkley growls and narrows his eyes at John, “Look what you made me do.”

“Yeah, well, judging by the look of him, it’s not the first time…” John quips, ducking and taking a step out of reach, a step that only takes him up against the desk.

Barkley swings the bat over his head then drops it to the tile with a thud. He leans on it, strongly reminding John of Mycroft and John laughs. He’s gotten so used to finding humor in the worst possible times and places that he no longer question the knee-jerk reaction.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Barkley grits out through clenched teeth. He is sweating and his chest is heaving from the exertion of putting all his weight behind hits that have gone nowhere. “I’m sick and tired of you rich bitches comin’ in here and takin’ what doesn’t belong to you!”

This time, Barkley’s eyes widen as he raises the bat over his head in both hands and steps forward. John pushes himself up on his hands so that he scoots his behind across the desk. He misjudges it slightly, because instead of stopping on the edge, he actually winds up in the floor. Now there’s really nowhere to go, nothing but a wall. Except in that wall appears to be another door. John scoots as fast as he can across the short distance to put his back to it. Instinctively, he turns away from Barkley, who has come around the side of the desk now and is advancing again, the bat at the ready.

John looks away from his attacker long enough to ascertain that the door is quite firmly locked by a massive chain with a completely dramatically over-done padlock. He has a second to think _ridiculous_ before Barkley swings.

_Crack!_

The wooden bat smacks against the metal door handle less than an inch above John’s head. In retaliation, he grabs at both of Barkley’s hands, forcing the man to drop the now broken baseball bat. Now that he’s close, John can make out a few small rust-colored stains on the end of it. He needs to make sure he protects that evidence; while he’s doing that, in the meantime, he decides he’s had about enough of this one-sided fight.

It is more than obvious that Barkley has almost worn himself down. The man’s face is scarlet, he’s pouring with sweat and he’s puffing more than someone with a pack-a-day habit. John thinks this almost going to be too easy and he draws back his head as far as possible. He yanks down on Barkley’s arms in order to pull himself upward then slams his forehead directly into Barkley’s face. There’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood, but Barkley doesn’t drop, only stumbles backward into the desk where he slumps, caught between it and the chair.

John stands up to his full five foot nine inches and wipes at his forehead. Barkley is stunned for the time being and Arley is still out cold. Fumbling for his mobile while still keeping an eye on both of them, John pokes blindly at some numbers and by a simple stroke of luck gets Mycroft on the first try.

“I’m on my way,” Mycroft states with no preamble and the phone goes dead in John’s hand.

“Well, then.” John says to himself. He gives Barkley one last look then steps over Arley and pushes at the door. Finding it locked, he pushes at the button in the center of the knob until it clicks. He opens it only to be greeted by five policeman pointing guns in his direction and yelling something at him about dropping his weapons. Since he’s unarmed, he raises his hands to his head and drops to his knees instead.

He decides then and there that he’s really getting tired of being arrested as someone shouts “stand down.” A woman in a black suit strides over to him and John looks up at her, taking note of the exact second she recognizes him and offers him a hand off the ground. He’s gotten so used to that look that it doesn’t surprise him: he may not know the name of everyone in Mycroft’s employ, but he has no reason to, their expressions are always the same. Idly he wonders if Mycroft's having clones made at some out of the way place like Baskerville. A weird little chill passes over him then and he shakes it off. 

“Doctor Watson, we have been looking all over for you. They found Martin and apparently he’s going to be okay.”

Mycroft himself appears a second later, his eyes roving over John; finding no immediate injuries, he sharply calls out an order that sends another group of people into the guard shack. They are not wearing uniforms or suits. _Clones_. John prefers not to dwell on that fact too much at the moment; he’s got more important things to worry about.

“I am relieved to see you are not injured too terribly, John,” Mycroft says to him after the woman in the tailored suit leaves them, his expression relaxing a minuscule amount around the edges. “Sherlock needs you.” He turns away with the raising of his left eyebrow and John feels like it is in his best interest to trundle behind in his wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Jan 2015: changed the name of Barkley's brother simply because it was bugging me to have it so close to Sherrinford's son's name. 
> 
> I apologize for keeping you waiting on this. The fight scene was giving me hell! It is way easier to watch one than to write one, without a doubt!


	13. You're Toast

**Chapter 13: You're Toast  
**

**Thursday evening**

Douglas does his best to ignore the heightened sense of _being alone_ that presses down on him from all sides of the empty waiting room—it is not loneliness, no, never that—but he is aware of his singularity all the same. He is no longer looking around at the other empty chairs; instead, he’s got his forehead cradled against his fingertips and he is hunched down, spine curled even as it aches from the position.

The pilot has heard very little of what went down in the past few hours, the only thing he knows for sure is that Martin is alive and having surgery to affix a plate and screws to his fractured fibula. Some sort of Special Team was called in and the man he’d seen in the guard shack shoveling grotesque orange crisps into his maw was taken away from the airfield in handcuffs, apparently screaming something about ‘Holmes brothers.’ Inwardly, Douglas shrugs. Having only known these people for what? Three? Four? Five days actually; he can’t say his life hasn’t been made more _interesting_ for their place in it. Seems like he’s managed to hook the baby of the family.

Douglas chuckles into his hands, thinking for sure he sounds like some sort of nutter. _The baby._ Hook, line and sinker.

If that’s the case, that makes him the oldest member of this odd circle, he’s sure of it. Even the eldest one is still younger than him by a few years. He shakes his head. Deep in the back of his mind, where voices like Carolyn’s live, there’s a tiny whisper of what could possibly even be _worry_ there. Should he have just gone on home with the others? Surely he could have talked to someone and headed back towards Fitton.

Then what, Douglas? He asks himself. What then? He certainly isn’t getting any younger and he is man enough to admit that in his past romances there has never been one that affected him in the instantly visceral way that seeing that waif thin agile little ginger up on the wing of that plane did. The confusing tangle of emotions seems to swing between a great desire to throw himself between Martin and the rest of the world or throw him down and have his way with him in front of the rest of the world.

“What does that say about me?” Douglas asks out loud, the gruff sound of his voice startling himself.

“Well, Mr. Richardson, I do believe it says that you’ve found what was missing,” a deep tone echoes his.

Douglas takes his face from his hands, looks up into Sherlock’s piercing eyes. John stands a step behind the detective with a brown cardboard drink holder in his hand. Three cups of what Douglas assumes is coffee pour steam between them through holes in the lids.

John smiles softly, the movement of his lips drawing Douglas’ attention away from the hot beverages.

“Yes, he always does that,” John offers a cup of the magic brew to Douglas, who takes it with a thanks.

“What did you…?” Douglas starts to ask, but there’s no one in the waiting room except for John and himself.

“Go on,” John urges him, settling into the hard plastic seat across from him.

Douglas runs the hand not holding his coffee through his thick brown hair. “I was just thinking what would have happened had I just high-tailed it back to Fitton when everything went crazy,” he states, deciding that honesty is the best policy.

John cocks an eyebrow at him as he sips his coffee. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t work like that around Holmeses.”

Douglas frowns, takes too big a gulp, winces and sets it down on the floor beside his chair.

John understands the expression plastered on Douglas’ face all too well. It is the look of a man who fell so hard and so fast that he’s had absolutely zero chance to analyze it. John saw it on his own face in the mirror so many times in the first few months of his acquaintance with Sherlock that it gives him a strong sense of kinship with the other man.

Instead of parsing out some sage advice, though, John giggles lightly and says without preamble: “You’re toast.”

For some reason, that strikes Douglas as one of the funniest things he’s ever heard. The sound of his own laughter surprises him even more, but there’s no stopping it once it begins. It's almost a relief to be able to laugh considering the way things might have gone over the last eighteen hours.

Down the corridor, standing in front of his youngest brother’s room, palm with fingers splayed against the door, Sherlock doesn’t need to hear the actual words to get the gist of John and Douglas’ conversation. His lips quirk up a bit and he pushes open the door.

***

_“I can’t see them! If I fire now, I’ll hit whatever is closest to me!” Martin shouts into his radio as bursts of light in front of him force him to narrow his eyes at the blinding brightness. The radio crackles so he grabs it with one hand while fighting to keep the plane in the air with the other. He tries to answer but the static has gotten so bad that the words are unintelligible._

_His world has narrowed down to nothing but what is fast becoming the awfully close thumping sounds of gunfire and exploding planes; the whistling of hit aircraft as they begin their final nosedive; he’s lost in a centrifuge of confusion, noise and…_

_And he realizes he has a choice as something light and fast zips by him so closely that he can make out the other plane’s markings even through the hazy fog of smoke. Martin only has one chance to either hit or be hit. He lets the microphone fall and it clangs against his instrument panel, another victim to this battle. Martin casts one last look around the cockpit, checks to make sure his parachute is tight on his shoulders and reaches for the gun…_

_The world explodes and the cockpit disintegrates around him so that he is falling._

***

Martin is getting fed up with closing his eyes in one place and waking up in an entirely new one. He’s done this more times in the past week than he’s ever done in his life and it is beginning to tip-toe the line between ridiculous and redundant. This time, at least, the silently staring specter of Sherlock doesn’t scare the shite out of him.

“Sherlock…” he starts to ask but then a broad hand settles on his shoulder.

“Douglas has been waiting, we’ll talk later,” Sherlock assures him with a squeeze of his long fingers.

Martin doesn’t say anything at first. He is fairly certain that even though there is definitely _something_ growing between them, the other man would have left for home by now. Surely no one is crazy enough to stay around him if they don’t have to?

Sherlock sighs and Martin can positively _hear_ the eye roll. “Martin,” he huffs.

Martin makes an effort to sit up further in order to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but the pulling sensation on his lower leg is a loud enough warning that changes his mind. He grits his teeth together and the idea of his new job melts away into a seemingly impossible dream.

“Not going to be flying planes anytime soon,” Martin huffs pitifully, pulling the blanket back to stare at his cast. He pats the plaster with the heel of his hand. “Or standing on any of them, either,” he sighs.

“No, but it doesn’t matter to me,” Douglas quips from the doorway, then crosses the room and drops into the chair beside the bed. He takes Martin’s hand between both of his without considering his actions or the audience.

Sherlock meets John’s eyes over Douglas’ shoulder and John nods. “Sherlock, we need to go. Mrs. Hudson’s had Sophie all day.”

It is fairly obvious to both Sherlock and John that neither of the other men are seeing anything but each other. Sherlock squeezes Martin’s shoulder once more and follows John out of the room. They are silent until the lift doors close with a thud.

“What do you think?” John asks.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hums, turning away from what appears to be an in-depth contemplation of the doors to face John, one eyebrow quirked upward.

John bumps his shoulder against Sherlock's. “Martin and Douglas.” He feels like a teenager digging for the schoolyard gossip, but the fact remains that he is honestly curious what his partner thinks.

He’s not going to get much of an answer, though. Sherlock only looks at him and says, “John.”

John smiles.


	14. Quiet Interlude

**One week later**

> _The Blog of Doctor John Watson_
> 
> _After a rather eventful holiday in America, we are home. In the midst of the fun and relaxation, there was a turn of events that came to our attention. It all began with a plane crash…_

 

John stares at the blinking cursor and frowns. If he writes about Douglas and Martin, Sherlock is going to accuse him of writing a _tawdry romance_ , yet there’s so much to say: a long-lost brother, hell, two of them, in fact; a murder mystery and the involvement of Mycroft and the mysterious minions. He is suddenly very glad they have their own suite of rooms because he’s certain that if Mycroft were anywhere in the vicinity, he surely would have remarked upon that particular thought.

John’s attention is pulled away from his laptop as Sophie shifts against his side where she’s fallen asleep watching a DVD. Not too terrible a movie, really, about talking planes, but John is fairly certain he’s seen enough aircraft for a while, though it seems their daughter has just begun being enamored of them. He pats Sophie’s head and considers the answers they were given from Mycroft about the strange murders: which really amounts to almost nothing at all.

John shrugs inwardly as Sherlock strides evenly into the sitting room from the loo. He reaches down and gently rolls Sophie into his arms. The little girl sighs and scrunches up her face but does not wake fully. John thinks she’s absolutely beautiful and whispers as much to her as he brushes a soft kiss on her forehead. As he adjusts her in his arms, Sherlock’s expression is calm, open and John can’t help but smile.

“Be right back,” Sherlock rumbles quietly.

John nods and turns back to his computer. He stretches his fingers from where they are cramping from hovering uselessly over the keyboard for so long and looks around their suite. Part of him desperately misses Baker Street, but the reality is that they are all better off here, even now that the majority of Sherlock’s ‘arch enemies’ have been put in their respective places. John spies Sherlock’s Stradivarius lying amidst its velvet case in the chair beneath the darkened window and thinks idly of requesting a song tonight.

It isn’t long before Sherlock returns, sliding into the empty spot beside John and taking up that space plus some. Ever so slowly, he leans into John until his head, neck and shoulders are all John can see.

John sighs but it’s only a put-on as he bends forward to put his laptop on the coffee table. The DVD has finally stopped, leaving the credits and music playing to an uninterested audience of two. Without turning around or moving from John’s lap, Sherlock reaches behind himself and pokes just the right button on the remote and the whole entertainment system shuts down. All thoughts of music fly from his mind as the heat from Sherlock’s torso soaks into him through his jeans.

John grins, runs his fingertip beneath the curls at Sherlock’s temple, suddenly punch drunk on the contented sounds the detective makes. He curls his left arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, lets his right hand rest on his nape and slowly drags the lean body against his. Their gazes lock then, burning sapphire and cool, clear peridot; their mouths come together with a teasing pressure that promises so much more. When they pause to breathe, they move no farther apart than their lips can reach.

“I want you,” John growl-whispers into the reasonably cool air of the flat gone thick and humid around their bodies. There’s not a peep from Sophie’s bedroom; Sherlock’s body is tense with arousal, John’s not too far behind. “As decadent as this couch is, I really would prefer the bed tonight.”

Sherlock, as is his way, does not answer in a sound more than could ever be called a ‘purr’ and he lazily drags his palm down the side of John’s jaw, blunt fingernails lightly scratching at the five o’clock shadow that graces it. John spreads his thighs and shifts himself; Sherlock’s hand drops from John’s face to the front of his jeans where he proceeds to continue with the light, teasing caresses.

John sucks his breath in between his lips, rests the back of his head against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes, while at the same time rolling his hips. “You’re killing me,” he hisses.

Sherlock smirks, finally leaving off with the teasing in order to stand up. He turns away and steps over the low table; he doesn’t look back as he begins shedding clothing as he heads into their bedroom. John stops two paces from him as he somehow manages to gracefully unbutton his trousers and step out of them and his pants. John catches the clothing as Sherlock makes to toss it into the corner somewhere, taking the bundle from him and dropping it onto the bureau closest to them. It isn’t Sherlock’s room in Baker Street, nor his own, but John will cherish every memory—good and bad—that they’ve made here.

John runs the flat of his palm from as high on Sherlock’s neck as he can reach, down the plane of his spine between his shoulder blades until it naturally comes to rest at the top of the painfully elegant swell of his buttocks. With the other hand, he grips Sherlock’s hip, dragging that plush behind against his erection, forcing a groan from his lips. Sherlock huffs a sigh as he arches his spine, seeking more of John’s heat while he reaches between them to fondle John’s sac, a move that rips a thick moan from John when he rolls first one ball then the other lightly in clever fingers.

After that there’s no more time for teasing before John’s got Sherlock on his back, the two of them kissing like there will be no tomorrow, John’s hands steady as he readies Sherlock’s body to admit him. The darkness beyond the windows and the quiet of their suite are a velvet curtain pushed aside for their passion and whispered declarations of love. John groans and murmurs into his lover’s neck as he grasps Sherlock’s throbbing dick in his hand, once again teasing, teasing until the detective pleads on a murmur, “Please.”

“Come for me,” John’s words buzz in hot little arrows against Sherlock’s neck and then the side of his jaw as his spine arches and he calves tighten around John’s hips. John slows his thrusts but only to drag out his lover’s pleasure. When Sherlock is panting, kissing him sloppily and digging those long fingers into his shoulders, John finds his rhythm again; three, four long, exquisite thrusts and he spills into the man he’s loved almost from the first time their eyes met.

John pulls out slowly, gently lowers Sherlock’s legs to the midnight blue satiny sheets. Sherlock grins and stretches out, limbs slack, hair an absolute wreck, lips begging to be kissed. John is never one to deny such a request so as he turns to go to the washroom for a flannel, he leans in and softly, softly, touches his lips against Sherlock’s, pulling back enough so that their breaths mingle and brushing a sweaty, stray curl out of Sherlock’s eyes.

The satiated sigh he receives as gratitude almost completely undoes him, almost makes him crawl right back over Sherlock’s body and forgo the cleaning routine. Instead, he opens a drawer on his way out of the bedroom and tosses an old pair of pajama bottoms in Sherlock’s direction, knowing he’s just going to drop them over the side of the bed.

John smiles at the vision in the bed fondly and finally makes it to the loo.


	15. Auld Lang Syne

**Chapter Fifteen: Auld Lang Syne**

 

>  
> 
> Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
>  and never brought to mind?  
>  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,  
>  and auld lang syne*?
> 
> CHORUS:
> 
> For auld lang syne, my jo,  
>  for auld lang syne,  
>  we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,  
>  for auld lang syne.
> 
> And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!  
>  and surely I’ll be mine!  
>  And we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,  
>  for auld lang syne.
> 
> CHORUS
> 
> We twa hae run about the braes,  
>  and pou’d the gowans fine;  
>  But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,  
>  sin' auld lang syne.
> 
> CHORUS
> 
> We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,  
>  frae morning sun till dine;  
>  But seas between us braid hae roar’d  
>  sin' auld lang syne.
> 
> CHORUS
> 
> And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!  
>  and gie's a hand o’ thine!  
>  And we’ll tak' a right gude-willie waught,  
>  for auld lang syne.
> 
> CHORUS

 

 

* * *

 

 

The large sitting room of the Holmes ancestral home is elegantly decorated in tiny twinkling fairy lights, tasteful decorations involving real pine tree boughs and in the grate of the old stone fireplace, flames sway gently to a rhythm all their own. A trio of tall white candles rest on the hand-polished mantel, adding cheer to the calm, welcoming atmosphere.

John pushes himself up off the floor from where he’s been stoking the fire, wiping his palms against his jeans.

“Won’t be long now,” he says, smiling to himself. Satisfied that the fire is good for the moment, he turns smartly and heads up to their suite in order to see if Sherlock and Sophie are ready for the party.

He passes Greg on the staircase; the DI looks impressive in a grey suit and sapphire-blue button down.

“Hey, John, you ready for this?” Greg states happily.

“No, not really,” John replies, “I don’t think this house has seen a crowd like this in about a hundred years.”

Greg chuckles and fiddles with his cufflinks. “You know, you’re probably right.”

“Daddy!” Sophie calls out as she barrels into John’s legs. He grabs her in time to stop her from rolling down the stairs just as Greg grabs his arm to steady the both of them.

“Thanks,” John offers.

“Sophie, you look resplendent!” Greg exclaims. Sophie reaches out to him, beaming.

“Whas ree-spend-ant?” the little girl inquires.

“It means magnificent, amazing, dazzling.” Greg smiles. Sophie brushes down her navy blue skirt and laughs.

“Want me to take her on down while you check on His Highness?” Greg asks John.

John can hardly take his eyes off his daughter, as she is looking more and more a perfectly feminine version of her father every day; he wholeheartedly agrees with Greg’s chosen adjective to describe her. “Yeah, go on you lot. Papa and I will be down shortly.”

“Thanks, Daddy!” Sophie squirms in Greg’s arms as John kisses her forehead. Her icy blue eyes flash with joy.

“Where’s mine?” Greg pouts, eyes flashing mischievously.

“As if I’d kiss _you,_ ” John retorts, “you’re not my type, and besides, Mycroft would probably have me taken out back and shot.”

Greg laughs and John stifles a giggle.

“No, probably just beaten.” Mycroft announces himself from down at the bottom of the stairs in his typical fashion. He’s smiling, too, though, so John just rolls his eyes, gives Greg a pat on the shoulder and continues on up to his husband.

***

“Nope, you can’t wear that.” John states blandly from his post in the doorway of their bedroom, where he’s leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

From where he’s standing in the mirror adjusting the lapels on his charcoal jacket, Sherlock looks over his shoulder, the movement causing one of his neatly-styled curls to drop over his eye. His expression rapidly changes from curious to wolfish. He walks nearer to John, stopping in front of his husband, but not out of arms’ reach. As always, he finds himself pulled into John’s orbit; it’s as undeniable as _the earth goes ‘round the sun._ Sherlock leans his head down as John’s hand rests on the back of his neck. Their lips touch softly and John quickly takes control of the kiss, ratcheting up the heat by tens of degrees.

In less time than he has to think about it, Sherlock neatly pins John against the wall, caging him with both arms and tilting his hips in order to slot them against one another. He grinds slowly against John, forcing a long sigh of desire from his husband’s lips.

“You are a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes,” John says as he grudgingly pushes their bodies apart.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and considers moving in again; he is stopped by the sound of young voices on the staircase.

“Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock!”

Two young boys pound up the stairs and gallop into the bedroom, never stopping before they crash into Sherlock, evidently ignoring John completely. It doesn’t bother him, though, quite the opposite in fact. He watches the ginger-haired Tobias and the blond-headed Alfred pull on Sherlock’s arms, one boy on each hand, the seven-year old fraternal twins chattering animatedly together.

Sherlock looks from each boy to John and frowns, his brows knitting together. “And just what is so amusing, John?”

John can’t stop the laugh before it’s already out. “Who would have ever thought you’d be such a hit with the younger generation?”

“Really, John? I spend most of my days in pursuits of the unknown and I fear nothing smelly, rotten or dangerous?” Sherlock quips as Tobias makes an attempt to climb up his leg.

John shrugs, concedes the point. “Are you ready to go downstairs and grab some nibbles?” he asks the boys.

“Oh, hi, Uncle John!” Alfred drops Sherlock’s hand to offer his own to John in a right courtly gesture. John shakes it and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Go on, you two lead the way.”

The boys grin excitedly and race back down the steps. Sherlock steps up next to John, wraps his arm around John’s waist and hauls him closer. He kisses him again, another slow, languid thing that’s a promise and so much more.

“Thank you,” he whispers and John doesn’t need it spelled out for him. He knows.

***

For the next few hours, there are nibbles, drinks, kids running amok with crackers, laughter, messes made, a glass of wine spilt…all in all it’s a great beginning to the New Year. Within minutes of Sherrinford and his family arriving, Carolyn and Hercules show up with fruit cake, champagne and Arthur plus his newest Pony Club girl, Raquel. Fifteen minutes after that, John opens the door and greets Martin with open arms and Douglas with a firm handshake.

Douglas laughs off the handshake and pulls John against him in a bone-crushing hug that leaves them both sounding off like hyenas. The ruckus draws Mrs. Hudson over from where she’d been conversing with Sherrinford’s now-thirteen year old daughter, Persephone. Persephone is nowhere near as raucous as her brothers; Mrs. Hudson likes the girl and is strongly reminded of Martin when he was much younger as Persephone’s personality is largely the same: shy and turned inward until she starts talking about her passion, and in this case, it also happens to be planes. The difference between the two, however, is that Martin’s wanted to be a pilot since he can remember, but Persephone wants to build them.

Eventually someone hands out silly hats and separates the pile of children, half of which are asleep, from the sitting room floor. They all gather around and Greg turns on the sound system. They count down to midnight and everyone who knows the words sings Auld Lange Syne. Tobais and Alfred mumble the lyrics because they are clueless, though probably making up whatever because they are carrying on like loons; John, Greg and Sherrinford bring up the rear by singing the original Scottish words. Sherlock flashes a smile at John from overtop Sophie’s head where she’s passed out on his shoulder and John makes a big show of standing on tiptoe to kiss him when the clock on the old year runs out.

“Happy New Year!” they all shout and there’s a great feeling of good will all around. After that, Mrs. Hudson, Persephone, John and Atlantea, Sherrinford’s wife, manage to corral all the little ones and send them off to dream land in one of the guest bedrooms. Even Sophie wakes up long enough to demand that she bunks with her cousins. No one argues and soon they’re all out like lights.

John snaps the light off after taking a moment to appreciate the sight of those kids finally getting to spend time together. They are quite the motley lot, actually a real rainbow. Alfred shares his hair color with his sister, though his is almost white. Tobais’ red locks contrast sharply with Sophie’s ebony ones, and the both of them will grow up with curls like Martin’s and Sherlock’s.

When his chest is tight and he thinks his heart is about to burst from all the love he’s carrying around that he doesn’t really like to discuss too much with anyone other than his husband, John smiles proudly and almost walks into Mrs. Hudson who says nothing but beams back just as brightly.

He knows she feels it, too, when she hugs him tightly and says, “I’ve chosen quite the brood for myself, haven’t I, John?”

Since there’s not really any words worthy enough to answer, he wipes the tear from her eye with his thumb. They link arms and rejoin the party in the sitting room.

***

Martin is stretched out on the floor in front of the sofa where Douglas sits, his hands resting on the top of Douglas’ socked feet. He’s no longer wearing the plaster cast on his leg, but a lighter walking cast, and he has to keep his foot propped up as much as possible, even this far past the injury. Mycroft had offered a couple of small pillows for the task and Martin accepted them graciously, glad to get off it for a while.

They’d already accepted the offer of the other guest room and Martin is cheerfully on his way to _almost_ completely inebriated with his third? Or maybe it’s his fourth? Glass of wine. Every time he’s looked around tonight at his _family_ , he feels ridiculously sappy. Even Carolyn, Herc and Arthur helped set the mood and in some ways he’d wished his real mum could have joined in, though he thinks that both Carolyn and Mrs. Hudson are certainly tied for ‘best stand in.’

He smiles to himself and sips at his beverage then leans back against the couch. Douglas pulls his legs in a little closer, letting Martin know that even if he’s not part of the current conversation, he’s still on the first officer’s mind. This thought makes his chest oddly tight, so instead he turns his attention to everyone else.

Martin eyes sweep about the room, taking everyone in and doing his best to focus on the rise and fall of the tempo of the conversation surrounding him like a comfortable old blanket. He smiles to himself, knowing full well he looks like a silly love struck fool to his brothers. There’s a quick tug on the back of his head; Martin knows Douglas has carded his fingers through the curls there so he scoots back even closer to the sofa.

***

From his position on the right hand side of the loveseat across from the bigger sofa, John is making a quiet study of everyone in the sitting room; the flames from the fireplace cast lovely, flattering light on each of them. Beside him, Sherlock twists around until the detective’s head is in his lap, long legs hanging over the arm of the couch. Mycroft offers him a half-hearted glare from where he is standing to the left of the mantel; a glare that quickly turns into an easy, fond smile.

Directly across from Mycroft, Greg is seated beside Mrs. Hudson on another couch. Next to Greg is a tall lamp offering its soft white glow to the muted atmosphere.

John’s gaze drops to where Martin sits on the floor at the end of the larger couch, his leg in its walking cast propped up on a handful of small pillows. John makes a mental note to check the pilot’s injury before he and Douglas depart tomorrow. Martin shifts backwards between Douglas’ legs and John does a mental thumbs up when he sees Douglas’ fingers bury themselves into the barely-tamed fiery mop of Martin’s curls.

Next to Douglas is Sherrinford’s wife, Atlantea. John thinks that if one of the Veelas from Harry Potter were to ever come to life, she’s one of them. A cascade of white-blonde hair falls down her back past her waistline; she is easily as tall as Sherlock, her eyes are icy blue and her expression one of quiet joy as she studies her husband where he stands on the opposite side of the mantel to Mycroft.

Interestingly enough, Mycroft and Sherrinford are wearing similar expressions on their faces. John realizes then how much he’s tuned out and makes the attempt to follow along.

Sherrinford is saying, “I don’t know what the damned point was, though, he was _never_ going to get the plans to my baby.”

Mycroft twirls his wine glass in long fingers for a few seconds before answering, “Higgins was the one behind it all.”

“ _Mikey_ ,” Sherrinford huffs in irritation, “I keep telling you, it isn’t possible. T. Higgins is _Thomas_ Higgins and the man is like, oh, I don’t know, ninety-three years old? He’s only owner of the airport in name, not day-to-day stuff.”

“Sherry, he’s almost one hundred.” Atlantea adds softly, her voice barely audible over the quiet classical music playing on the sound system.

Sherrinford nods while his brothers snort in a _well-that’s-good-for-blackmail_ manner in unison. He manages to frown at all three of them in succession.

“Sherrinford, I am not talking about Thomas,” Mycroft underscores his point by placing his wineglass on the mantel a little rougher than he’d intended. He’s so intent on correcting his elder brother that when a drop splashes onto his hand, he licks it off without thinking.

Everyone pretends not to hear Greg make a strangled noise that he attempts to cover up with a fake cough. Mrs. Hudson pats his thigh and mutters, “Have some more wine, dear, it is awfully dry in here.”

The tips of Greg’s ears turn red.

Mycroft misses it all because Sherrinford has now turned to face him fully. John can feel the tension suddenly spring up between them—the great Titans of the Holmes family. He closes his eyes and counts to three, concentrating on the weight of Sherlock on his lap. When Sherrinford speaks again, Sherlock relaxes against him and John can hear Martin exhale, as well.

“Go on,” Sherrinford drawls, his eyes flinty and expression neutral.

John knows that expression all too well.

Mycroft doesn’t exactly sigh. “I have been talking about _Trey_ Higgins.”

Sherrinford stills then throws his head back and laughs heartily.

“Shhh!” Atlantea warns, pointing towards the ceiling.

“That explains everything, then!” Sherrinford exclaims. He looks around as if expecting an applause, and that seems to be when he realizes no one else is following, not even Sherlock.

“Alright. Thomas Higgins is the owner of the airfield, well, one of several, that is, where we all met up last summer. His grandson, Trey, is the second in command as it were, to the old man. Trey’s official title is some stupid thing like ‘Daily Operations Manager’ or some such bullshit. Anyway, he’s been hiding some pretty serious secrets, none of which I would have even known about had he not attempted to steal plans for several experimental aircraft in his father’s name—including two of mine.”

At the mention of those wonderful planes, Martin sits up a little straighter. Sherrinford shoots him a wink before he takes a sip of his wine.

“He’s also been convicted of several other ‘blue collar’ crimes,” Mycroft adds, “Though most important to us is what he’d been planning on doing with those plans.”

“Russia or Korea?” Sherlock pipes up.

Mycroft turns towards Sherlock, “We believe it to be both, at least.”

“Where is he, then?” Sherrinford asks as Martin opens his mouth to make the same inquiry.

To everyone’s surprise, Mycroft shrugs.

“What does this Higgins character have to do with kidnapping people, breaking their bones and stuffing them into airplanes, then?” Douglas wonders aloud.

“Good question,” Greg adds.

Sherlock sits up so quickly that he almost causes John to drop his wine. After a bit of rearranging, he answers Douglas. “Trey Higgins is apparently a notorious womanizer. He’d been having affairs with at least two of the secretaries who worked at the airfield. If my calculations are correct, and I have no reason to believe they aren’t, both women knew in each other enough to be friendly. It was only a matter of time before one would find out what he was up to and share it with the other one…why he started with them is a fact only known to himself. It is obvious that the two morons he hired to do a bit of his dirty worked turned out to be even more idiotic and certainly more vicious than he’d thought.

The idea was to spite his grandfather. Thomas decided some time ago that when he dies, Trey gets absolutely nothing more than a monthly stipend. Trey obviously thought that if he messed up a few of the largest grossing venues for his grandfather’s airfields, Thomas might lose enough to reconsider.

Nabbing Martin was a mistake. Somehow there was a mix up with the name ‘Holmes’ and Trey panicked for fear that it was Sherrinford coming after him for attempting to steal those plans. His panic led him to order his goons to move too soon. Martin is approximately the same height and weight as the first two victims.”

They are all silent except for an odd squeak from Martin.

Once again Martin opens his remind them that he’s not _that_ small, but John is muttering _amazing_ under his breath. Martin’s voice goes unheard. Douglas rests his hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“What happened to Dumb and Dumber?” Sherrinford turns back towards Mycroft to ask.

Mycroft raises his eyebrow at the reference. “Consider them safely out of the general population.” He says with such steel in his voice that the statement brooks no further questioning.

“So, where’s Trey, then?” John sets his now-empty wineglass on the floor in order to shuffle around a bit. He’s tired and his shoulder is beginning to ache.

Without admitting anything, Mycroft replies, “Oh, no doubt we’ll get him.”

“Without a doubt,” Sherlock agrees drily.

“I don’t believe any of them were….” Sherrinford begins readily.

“…counting on there being four of us!” Martin finishes for him. His stunned expression shows he wasn’t counting on being heard this time.

There’s a ripple of laughter at the sound of Martin finally able to add to the conversation. Douglas squeezes his shoulder as they move on to other topics.

All in all, John is fairly certain their first Holmes Family New Year’s Party has been a resounding success.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author is doing ridiculous Happy Dance. It's done, it's done, it's done! See you all next time! Same Bat Time, Same Bat Station!


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